


If you don't think every day is a good day, just try missing one.

by afra_schatz, noalinnea



Series: boarding school au [2]
Category: British Actor RPF, The Hobbit RPF, The Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: Eric loves his car almost as much as he loves Viggo, Karl thinks they are all idiots, Orlando is judgmental, Sean's couch has healing powers, Viggo and Eric are still lifemates, West is a probably a pyromaniac, a story a day, boarding school life, jackson college, sometimes they teach, there is something wrong with Gerry, they probably are
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-19
Updated: 2018-08-14
Packaged: 2018-09-27 18:04:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 242,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10037507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afra_schatz/pseuds/afra_schatz, https://archiveofourown.org/users/noalinnea/pseuds/noalinnea
Summary: More from Jackson College, that boarding school in Yorkshire with a suspiciously attractive teaching staff - a small, mostly random snippet for each day. Started on December, 1st, 2016, the chapters include three / four months worth of ficlets each.Also, Orlando starts seeing Richard Armitage in June; all the fics about that can be foundhere.





	1. Meet the staff

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moodboards for some of the teachers working at Jackson College.


	2. Meet the staff

'I have a theory about Viggo', Orlando says as he puts down the tray with breakfast next to Sean's. 

Sean has a spoon of porridge only centimetres from his lips, and for a brief second, he debates whether or not to postpone shoving it into his mouth. Then of course he does just that. So his response to Orlando's words is a mumbled 'Whazzat' around a big load of slightly too hot breakfast deliciousness.

Orlando throws him a glance of mild disapproval, like Sean was that First Year of his that has absolutely no impulse control when it comes to picking his nose. Then he points at Viggo with his tea spoon.

'He gets weirder in December' he says, then, after a moment of extracting his teabag from his mug, he adds, 'I mean, look at him.'

Sean hums. It's not necessarily something that needs any other confirmation than what you can see with your eyes. Viggo is currently sitting not at the teacher's table in the dining hall, but between two very uncomfortable looking Third Years from Orlando's house. He is also wearing a pyjama top with reindeers on it.

'I asked him about that once,' Orlando says, casually, like that doesn't mean he brought on a Blitz-inquisition since that is the only way he ever talks to Viggo. 'Because he didn't used to be this weird, did he?'

Sean distantly remembers one Christmas do in the early 90s or something that was organized by a bunch of overzealous Fourth Years. There was egg nog. Viggo confiscated it immediately and naturally ended the evening completely plastered. He hums.

Orlando looks at him from over the rim of his mug of steaming tea, waiting.

'He has reindeers on his pyjama,' Orlando points out, unnecessarily, and shakes his head. 'Honestly.'

Sean licks the last porridge from his spoon. Orlando shakes his head, then concentrates on spreading Nutella over his toasted bread; very neatly and almost half a glass. He quirks an eyebrow when Sean nudges his side, but he looks up where Sean's spoon is pointing now.

In the doorway to the dining hall, Eric leans against the frame, accidentally blocking the entry for some tiny and rather hungry looking first years, In contrast to his fashion victim lifemate, he is wearing perfectly normal clothes and an absolutely shit eating grin.

Orlando rolls his eyes.

'Reckon he lost a bet?' Sean asks idly and helps himself to a clementine from Orlando's tray. 

Orlando cuts his bread into four neat squares.

'Reckon it's what Eric put in his advent calendar.'

Sean chuckles and starts peeling his clementine.

The next day Eric spends carrying around a burning candle wherever he goes, by that violating all kinds of fire safety rules, and sending Christopher almost into shock. Viggo perpetually looks like he wants to propose. 

Over dinner, Orlando takes one look at Eric who is trying to shield his (now very low) burning candle from being blown out by Dom and shakes his head.

'They are all such idiots', he says but doesn't sound unkind.

Sean hums and steals a gingerbread cookie from Orlando's tray. 

***

On December, 3rd, Sean's history class in year four unanimously decides that enough is enough. Sean vaguely wonders why he is never invited to the revolutionary tribunal meetings they must have during the five minute break.

'So', Olivia says and parks herself before me, and Sean is impressed by how much accusation and challenge she can pack into those two letters.

'Off to the guilotine?' he asks as he sidesteps her and puts his books onto his desk. She immediately follows (probably considering whether that was a suggestion worth considering), once more halting in front of him and glaring up at him in all her five foot glory.

'We've decided that it's well unfair, Mr Bean.'

'Life in general, Liv?' he asks back. But she won't have any of his nonsense and frowns, her ponytail bobbing as she shakes her head.

'Like, right, Mr Mortensen's class is doing all kinds of Christmas whatnot, and all we do is -' she pauses for a moment and then spits out, 'talk about some weird geezers in wigs.'

Now, one might argue that Robespierre and Danton would object to being called 'weird wigged geezers', and also 'all kinds of Christmas whatnot' was definitely more R.E. than it was history. But honestly, Sean doesn't fancy a kick in the shin and being mugged behind the bike shed later, so he keeps his mouth shut about that.

Instead he does what he usually does in a situation like this. He leans against the edge of his desk, crosses his arms in front of his chest just like she does and nods at her.

'All right, you have 30 seconds. What have you in mind? And it better not involve skiving.'

Olivia glances back at her classmates and when she looks back at him, she has her poker face on.

Let the bartering begin. 

***

When Bernard opens the door, he has shaving cream on the left half of his face and is not wearing trousers.

'Am I too early?' Sean asks with a grin, even though he knows he is.

'Depends', Bernard says and waves him in, scratching his bum as he walks back into the house. 'Are you here to side with me on the handlebar issue?'

'You're not going to leave the house with that kind of monstrosity on your face', calls a voice from the kitchen.

'Hi Marianne!' Sean shouts and nearly stumbles over a skateboard because he wasn't paying attention where he was going for a second and that is almost always near-leathal in this house. Bernard laughs when he sees it and then makes another grand waving gesture as if Sean was a swarm of wasps that he is trying to redirect.

'Go and bother my wife while I finish up, mate.'

So Sean does and honestly, he loves Bernard but the real reason why he is always early for Sunday lunches in the Hill house is because Marianne is always in need of someone testing her sauces and dips and whatnot. So when the others begin to trickle in - Eric's and Viggo's arrival announced by the racket Eric's Falcon makes, Orlando bringing flowers because 'I wasn't raised by fucking wolves, you know' (he was de facto raised by Sean, and Sean is positive that he never ever taught him this), Gerry and Dom West both nearly breaking their necks over the skateboard of doom - Sean has already eaten half his weight in stuffed mushrooms. He also is already a little tipsy thanks to the wine that Bernard generously poured the moment he and his handlebar moustache entered the kitchen.

And because it's the second Sunday in Advent, and two candles burn on the pine cone wreath adorning the dining room table, there is of course a small fire at some point. As per usual Dom West is adamant he had nothing to do with it, even though they all know he is an arsonist in his spare time. Viggo bravely quenches the flames by smothering it under a generous helping of mashed potatoes while Gerry, unperturbed, continues giving Bernard completely bullshit advice on what he calls 'proper beard care, mate'.

So, pretty much the usual Sunday lunch, really. 

***

'And yes, Mr Bloom, in my opinion, Kant's imperative is absolutely -'

A knock on the door interrupts Robert's continued attempt to assassinate Orlando's nerves before the first break on Monday. Still, Orlando can't very well blame an attack dog for fighting when he has been the one edging him on.

'Yes?' he answers, not even attempting to hide the fact that it is a minor annoyance to be interrupted in the first place. If this is Diane being late again, he has every intention to - 

Dom's face appears in the opening slit.

'Excuse the interruption, but do you have a moment?'

Feeling a frown appearing on his forehead, Orlando gives a nod and steps out into the hallway after telling Robert to enlighten the rest of the class on his views about the categorical imperative.

The second he pulls the door shut behind himself, Dom loses the serious expression and grins like the demented person he is.

'I swear, Dom,' Orlando starts and honestly, he doesn't even know how many empty threats to Dom's life he has started this way. Dom knows anyway, so he cuts himself of, and instead asks, 'What is it?'

'No, seriously, you need to come with me', Dom says and just turns around on his heels and walks off, snickering to himself. Orlando heaves a sigh and glances back through the window to his classroom. Robert has gotten up to the blackboard and Orlando thinks he just saw him throw a piece of chalk in the general direction of Tobias, so they should be good on their own for another five minutes. 

He catches up with Dom just when Dom rounds the corner and halts in front of Eric's classroom. Orlando wants to ask what this is about, but Dom just points at the small window in the door and keeps snickering.

'One of these days, Dom,' Orlando says, then looks inside.

Eric stands in front of the blackboard, enthusiastically waving his arms about like he does pretty much every minute of his awake time during the day, and he has his A-level kids engaged in an unusally lively discussion.

Orlando mouthes 'What?' and Dom rolls his eyes like Orlando was the odd one around here.

'Look at the blackboard, you idiot,' he instructs and pushes Orlando back towards the door.

The blackboard is filled with a lot of calculations and geometrical drawings in different colours, so it takes a moment for Orlando to make sense of them. When he has, he turns back to Dom.

'He isn't honestly -' he starts and Dom nods enthusiastically.

'Mate, he totally is.'

Orlando looks at the blackboard, then at Eric who is now typing something into his calculator like his life depended on it, then at Dom.

'I don't know any of you people', he decides.

He turns around to walk back to his classroom and the safety of German enlightenment, leaving the head of the Maths Department and his math minions to finish their complicated calculations for designing the perfect two storey gingerbread house. 

***

Karl needs new mates. Preferably from New Zealand. Sean is a good bloke, but his obsession with obscure footie teams borders on idiotic. Also, Karl keeps getting his ass handed to him at WOW as well as Madden which is just wrong. 

Of course, Sean isn't as bad as Eric. First of, Eric is an Aussie and that alone is reason enough for Karl to be actively ashamed of calling him a mate. That and his unhealthy attachment to Viggo, really. Not that Karl particularly cares about their codependency, and while he is pretty sure the two of them have been fucking for years, he doesn't give a shit about that either. But really, Viggo is a massive cunt, and so is Eric.

But what can you do when you happen to work in the UK, in the middle of nowhere. The alternative to watching footie with Sean and cricket with Eric and Viggo is probably going to the theatre with Bernard or watching Dom West blow himself up with one of his stupid science experiements. Yeah, no.

So he shows up on Eric's doorstep in the middle of the fucking night because New Zealand plays Australia in the ODI series at 2.20 p.m. in Canberra and they are on the other fucking end of the world. Eric opens and has the Australian flag wrapped around his shoulders like a cape. Because he is an idiot. Someone (Viggo) also painted his face in red, blue, and white. They are both idiots. Karl makes a gagging noise as he walks past and parks his ass on the comfy chair furthest away from the sofa where Viggo is already sprawled.

The next couple of hours? Karl will hurt anyone who even dares to mention them to him afterwards. New Zealand throws away wickets in a fashion that makes Karl want to curl up in a ball and cry. Eric, on the other hand, is cheering so loudly that around four thirty, there is a knock on the door and a Fourth Year stands there, blinking tiredly and wearing pyjamas, pleading with him to tone it down a bit. Eric laughs in the kid's face and forces him to watch the next half hour with them, squeezed between Eric and Viggo on the couch. The kid is still only the second most uncomfortable person in the room. Karl has to invent new curse words to do the shit justice that is happening on the field. He wouldn't make that fucking bad choices at the toss if he were blind and crippled.

Viggo falls asleep around five with his legs draped over Eric's. At least that keeps Eric from getting up every fucking time Australia gets lucky and hit Karl in triumph. When the first session is over at 6.20, Eric tosses a bag of crisps at Karl's head and tells him that that is breakfast. Viggo, in the meantime has converted Eric's stupid flag into a blanket and is snoring like nobody's business. 

The second session is still running when they can't stall any longer and have to head for class - Karl is wearing his trackies anyway, so how is that for professionalism and foresight. Eric puts on a shirt, yeah, but other than that he doesn't even bother washing off his stupid Make Up. Which is how - at ten past nine when Karl is trying to teach his inept first years how to throw a ball - Eric storms into the gym, beats his chest with his fist like a gorilla and proclaims that Australia is by far the superiour cricket nation. Karl tells him to piss off. Then he crouches down next to Jeri Faber whose reaction to seeing her math teacher in full war-paint is apparently fainting.

Karl needs new mates.

***

Eric opens his door and finds Viggo standing there.

'Yo, 'sup?', he asks and even though he doesn't wear a baseball cap and can't pull its visor to the side like the cool kids do it, Viggo's mouth quirks into a smile.

'Got a gift earlier', Viggo answers readily, and that's at least something.

Because the thing is, Viggo doesn't knock on Eric's door, usually. Normally, he just lets himself in (sometimes it's through the window as well) or he calls - no point in having a cell phone if you can't use it as a door bell, that's Viggo's motto. Usually that also means that they are already deep in conversation when Eric does let him in, and it has happened more than once that they kept talking on the phone, Eric in the kitchenette, Viggo in the dining area.

But when Viggo knocks on the door, it's because there's the gap between the knock and Eric answering, sort of a ten seconds delay that Viggo could use to walk away, to reconsider whether he really wants to talk or not. Eric can't say he particularly likes it when Viggo knocks instead of phoning or breaking in. 

But it's not a bad day, not really, is it, when Viggo is talking. Not when he doesn't seem to want to spend the better part of the afternoon brooding on Eric's couch before finding the right words, but when he holds a piece of paper in front of Eric's face; the gift in question apparently. Eric takes the drawing and waves Viggo in.

'Is that supposed to be you?' he asks as he follows into the living area.

Viggo takes Eric's beer from the bookshelf where he left it.

'I don't have a halo, neither have I got wings.'

'True,' Eric says and pretends to compare the drawing and Viggo anyway. 'Same kinda crooked smile, though.'

'Thank you for thinking of me as an angel with apoplexy', Viggo replies and drinks. 'Victoria Miller drew that. It's Saint Anthony, she said.'

'How comes she draws you the patron saint of lost souls of all people?' Eric asks, partly because he is a show-off who can't pass up on an opportunity to brag with his knowledge of catholic saints, partly because Viggo is giving him that kind of look, the one where he isn't really blinking, when he is waiting for something.

Viggo takes another sip from Eric's beer and lifts his right shoulder in a shrug, his eyes not leaving Eric's.

'She told me she was praying he'd look out for me', he offers, and his voice is quiet, laced with both fondness and bitterness.

'And the boyband version of him even,' Eric says with fake reverence. 'Look at that blow-dry,' 

He steps closer to, and Viggo automatically draws his hand back to get the bottle out of Eric's immediate reach. But Eric isn't interested in that anyway (at least not at the moment, he'll steal it back later). Instead he drops the drawing onto a shelf, grasps Viggo's head with both of his hands and lightly knocks their foreheads together.

'Lost soul, my arse,' he mocks humorously with enough certainty for both of them.

After a moment he feels the hard glass of the bottle resting against his skin, two of Viggo's fingers still hooked around its neck as he strokes the base of Eric's skull with the others. 

***

Thursday, December 8th, 3.25 p.m., Jackson High's Chemistry lab.

Featuring one very busy chemistry teacher with a history of damaging school property and one very bored biology teacher with a questionable sense of humour.

'So, anyroad, so I asked Fiona in bio this morning, Fi, what part of the human body increases ten times when excited? And what do you reckon she answered?'

'I don't know, Gerry.'

'She didn't say that, though she clearly didn't. Nah, she looked at me all scandalized and said, 'Mr Butler, sir, I'm not answering that!'.

'Did she?'

'So, I turned to Younes, and Younes was rolling his eyes at me and was like, could it be any more kindergarten? It's obviously the human eye, sir, then he turned to Fi and was like, you've got a proper dirty mind, you know that.'

'They are fifteen, what do you expect?'

'Not finished yet, mate. Fiona, she was just trying to come up with some stupid excuse when Rob turned around to her and said, also you're in for a fucking big disappointment, sister.'

'Hm.'

'C'mon, West, it's hilarious!'

'It's also completely made up, isn't it?

'Gen up, you wound me. Okay, fine, then answer me this: Why are men sexier than women?'

'I'm a bit swamped right now, can we postpone your coming out until I'm not holding dangerous chemicals?'

'First off, I wasn't coming out just then. Second off, how is any of that tat dangerous? And thirdly, answer my question.'

'I have no idea. You tell me. Why are men sexier than women?'

'Cause you can't spell sexy without 'xy'! Hah!'

'I didn't know jokes could cause one actual physical pain. Thank you for broadening my horizon.'

'You're welcome, mate. How do you tell the sex of a chromosome?'

'You pull down its jeans.'

'No, you - actually, aye, how did you reckon?'

'You're a biologist with a terrible fondness of bad biology jokes. Statistically, more than half of them revolve around genes.'

'Do they? Wait, you actually sat down and compiled that stat, didn't you?'

'No.'

'C'mon, West, it's like you think I don't know you.'

'No.'

'Of course you did.' 

'I didn't.'

'Aye, right. Did you make a pie chart, too? That's braw, mate, I knew you cared.'

'Gerry?'

'Mate?'

'Do you really think that making fun of me in the middle of my lab is such a clever idea? There are literally twenty two things within reach with which I could seriously injure you.'

'Mate, I've seen your lesson plans for this week, and also I'm not blind. You're surrounded by deodorant and attempt to create perfumes with your year six, so they smell nice for Christmas. Which is of course very manly and - whoa!'

'You were saying?'

'I'm not saying anything as long as you're pointing a fucking flame thrower in my direction!'

'But Gerry, you saw my lesson plans, all I'm doing is fiddle with deodorants. Coincidentally, did you know that propellant gas is highly flamable?'

'I do now! Seriously, West, get that out of my face, I'll look like a numpty if you scorch off my eyebrows.'

'All right. I'm just saying. Chemist. Dangerous materials. Not a good idea to annoy me.'

'Noted. But seriously, I didn't see that in your lesson plans. 'How to make a blow torch out of a can of deodorant', I mean.'

'I thought it wise to not include ways to set fire to the school into the curriculum.'

'That's sound.'

'Even though it's rather futile, considering they have an unlimited access to the internet.'

'Nah, they won't search for that. The internet is for porn.'

'Hm.'

''s my professional opinion. As a biologist, I mean.'

'Can I ask you something, though?'

'Sure, mate.'

'It's sexy gay porn, isn't it? What your internet is for?' 

***

Somehow, Dom got stuck with three hours of supervising class tests today. It's a fate worse than death if anyone asks him. He knows some people (Orlando) spend the time you're supposed to stop pupils from cheating grading papers, others (Viggo) annoy other people (Sean) by texting them continuously, and a third party (Bernard) once held a ten minute monologue of how he wishes he had a tractor lawn mower to haunt Jackson College's grounds, until a pupil (Lijah, when they were sixth formers) told him to shut the fuck up, they were trying to concentrate here.

Anyhow, Dom doesn't trust lawn mowers, and he doesn't have any papers to grade as of yet. So he is insanely bored and seriously considered just giving his year four the answers to the test, so this agony would end. But somehow, just the moment he thinks that, honest to God, Christopher walks past his classroom and looks through the window like he KNOWS what Dom is about to do. Dom very nearly falls off his chair, but successfully covers up the almost-embarrassment by glaring at Mahdi in front of him who turns red and tries to hide his cheat sheet under his desk.

Dom's been working at Jackson College for twelve years now (or something), and he is still fucking petrified of Christopher. Seriously, if Jackson College was housed in an ancient castle instead of a bunch of Edwardian houses, Dom would be convinced that Christopher wasn't actually vice principal but a vengeful ghost haunting the halls. He is pretty sure that even the headmaster himself is scared of him, and McKellen regularly faces down Ofsted people who are like bureaucratic pirates or something.

Dom reckons the only person not afraid of him is Orlando but that is mainly because Orlando is an insane person. Not if you asked him, of course, Orlando regularly makes it very clear that he firmly believes that he is the only one around with actual functioning braincells. But that's the thing about crazy people, isn't it? They always think they are sane. Dom, who has known Orlando since the first day of school and who has witnessed him doing things like eating a pound of ketchup just because someone said he couldn't, Dom knows better. Orlando is mental and possibly suicidal, so he always calls Christopher out just for the sake of it. Like during the staff conference this morning when Christopher reminded everyone that it would be a safety violation to put up Christmas wreaths in classrooms and light candles. Of course, Orlando instantly started arguing with him about it.

Dom pulls out his phone and checks his messages (discreetly, under the table, kinda like Joanie in the second last row is doing it right now; as if she'd find the answers to Dom's test question on Wikipedia). Orlando has send him a picture. Of a wreath. Of course he bought a wreath. And a fucking ugly one at that. Golden tinsel? Seriously?

Naturally, Dom knows what will happen next. Orlando, who thinks Christmas is the most idiotic holiday on the planet, will turn lighting the candles on his wreath into some sort of symbolic gesture to fight oppression. Viggo won't be able to help himself and pour fuel into the fire. Somewhere along the lines, Karl will punch something. It will all escalate until Cate will tell Sean to get Orlando a fricking set of fairy lights to weave into his stupid wreath because she is a pragmatic goddess, and the only person able to nudge Orlando off of his war path has always been Sean, if he can be bothered.

Dom sends Orlando two thumbs up and about twenty emoji candles. Then he turns the sound on his phone back on, opens the app he renamed 'Disciplining students too stupid to cheat better', flicks his phone and releases the maximum volume whiplash sound. All pupils look up. Joanie and Mahdi nearly fall off their chairs. 

***

'I have no idea why I allow you to talk me into these things', Cate says, the bell at the end of her Santa hat jingling as she shakes her head. 

'You wha'?' Sean asks, very much incredulous, or as incredulous as you can pull of when you're wearing felt reindeer antlers on your head and have your mouth stuffed with cinnamon cookies.

With a mittened hand, Cate makes a great expanding gesture at York's Christmas market surrounding them. It's not the best of ideas since she uses the hand that holds abou five different plastic bags and she nearly hits an old man in the face with it. He looks up to complain about it and she gives him her most beatific smile. It would've worked, too, if Sean wasn't snickering next to her. She elbows him in the side.

'The stuff I do for you', she sighs ostentatiously and turns to a stand that sells exceedingly ugly ornaments.

Sean stuffs the last cookie into his mouth and crumples up his now empty cookie bag. He discreetely stuffs the little paper ball into one of Cate's many bags. He then proceeds to lick his fingers clean from crumbs and has just finished with that task when Cate turns around again, her scrunched up nose a commentary on the cheap tat she just eyed. Sean's (licked-clean) middle finger is greeting her. 

'The stuff you do for me, eh?' he says humorously. 'Let's see, you allow me to drive you here and find us a parking space in this hellhole, you then allow me to tag along while you endeavour to buy the most atrocious things known to mankind. What else, oh yes, you kindly destroy my sense of smell by forcing me to stand around in The Perfume Shop for half an hour and have me be the guinea pig for your husband's new after shave.'

He nods, pats her Christmas hat, using it to also wipe his fingers clean and earns himself a slap agains the chest for it.

'Yeah, you're life is filled with hardships.'

Cate glares at him for a moment but really, Sean smells like a olfactorily challenged sailor on shoreleave, so it's not like she can deny it.

'Fine', she gives him, 'maybe this is partly my fault. This here, though?' Once again she gestures at the Christmas Market, and with the kind of mezmerized fascination with which you pass traffic accidents. Her gaze momentarily gets stuck at a shop selling glass baubles with one's face on it. 'Why would you insist coming here? You're still looking for a present for your parents?'

Sean makes a dismissive gesture and she follows as he starts to push his way through the crowds once more.

'I'm getting them Sky to watch the football.'

'Orlando then?'

'He's getting the only thing he ever wants.'

'A device to remove that stick up his arse?'

Sean snorts but shakes his head and pulls on her sleeve to re-direct her into one of the smaller aisles.

'Books.'

Cate catches up with Sean just as he slows down near the end of the cul-de-sac they found themselves in.

'Okay, I give up. Why are we here then?'

Sean half-turns to her, gives her his patented grin that makes him look like the villain from a Bond movie and points up at the last stall's wooden sign.

'Mulled wine, obviously.' 

***

Liv is well fucked. It was Susa's idea, of course, to get hammered on Saturday - 'cuz they never check your ID card on Christmas markets, I know that for a fact' and 'you can get well mullered on mulled wine, haha'. Both are true, obv, but what they haven't reckoned with is that their house teacher might have a taste for it as well. So, when it is Liv's shout and she has just picked up three new mugs of steaming wine, she runs straight into Mr. Bean, spilling half of it onto his coat. Now, Liv is a good liar, but even she can't explain away this. All she can do is keep Susa, Marina, and Mo out of it, after she sees them diving behind the next dumpster the second they hear Mr. Bean's 'Oi!'. Good reflexes, Liv's mates have.

Anyway, smelling of cheap spiced wine, Bean ignores Mrs. Blanchett standing behind him, laughing herself silly. He also ignores Liv's stammered attempt to come up with a lie. He points at Liv and says, 'You. Five hours on my couch. Tomorrow, noon.' before he starts wiping himself clean with the napkins Mrs. Blanchett holds out ot him.

So, that is how, at 11.55 a.m. on a bloody Sunday, Liv stands in the hallway in front of Mr. Bean's rooms and practices her contrite face before she knocks. It's not the first time she's been couched, and it's not that bad, really, she told that to Susa, Mo, and Marina yesterday when they were totally freaking out after catching up with Liv.

This is how it normally goes: Bean opens the door and looks at you with his stern face that even Liv was proper scared off the first few times, and he bids you in. He gestures you to sit down on The Couch and offers you a mug of tea. But that isn't out of the kindness of his heart or anything; he lets you sit there stewing in your own sweat while he takes his bloody time to mess with the kettle. Then, when you have a mug in your hand and wonder how low a teacher's salary must be if he can't even afford china that isn't chipped, he sits down opposite of you, drinks his tea and just looks at you in varying degrees of annoyance and benevolence ('Benevo - you what?' Susa asked when Liv explained the procedure because she is a muppet and doesn't know any words with more than four letters). Then you talk about whatever it is that caused you to end up here, and somehow, Bean never yells at you but still makes you feel right shit for a while. Sometimes he even asks you what you think the proper punishment for what you did would be. Liv wonders whether anyone ever answered 'Well, getting twenty lashes with the whip would be appropriate, don't you think, sir' and then got what he wished for.

It's exactly like that today as well, at least at first. Bean also offers her an aspirin, and Liv takes it because she does have a fucking headache and she doesn't even care that obviously Bean is laughing at her. And they talk and whatever, and Liv pretends that she is sorry and won't do it again and Bean pretends that he believes her. He then tells her to stay put and finish her bio homework here; because he is fucking omniscient or something, and he knows that Mr Monaghan is doing alcohol addiction in bio at the moment. So ironic, yeah.

Anyway, Liv thinks that as far as punishments go, this could've gone worse, fetches her stuff from her room and tells Mo, who's asking what Bean's gonna do with her, that she has to spend the rest of the afternoon cleaning his kitchen in nothing but her bra and pants. Mo nearly keels over because she is soft in the head and believes anything you tell her.

Back in Bean's rooms, she sits down on The Couch and starts with bio while Bean is in his kitchen and tries to cook, though it turns out that he is utterly useless at it and nearly sets off the fire alarm. He laughs when he comes back into the living room to fetch his phone and call help, and Liv scrunches up her nose at the terrible smell of burned eggs or something. Anyway, ten minutes later, there is a knock on the door and Mr Bana stands there. He says, 'Sean, you're a complete idiot and inept at everything in life, you'll never -' then he pauses for a moment when he sees Liv on the couch, like he is considering toning it down a notch with underage company present, but then decides against it. 'You'll never find a husband if you can't cook and are shit in bed'. He then disappears in the kitchen and Bean sits down next to Liv and helps her with the bit about mental ineptness as a result of chronic alcohol abuse, while Mr Bana cooks and fucking sings while he is doing it. 'Honest, you're trying to drive me to alcoholism here, don't you' Liv mutters under her breath and naturally Bean hears it.

Still singing like the lunatic he is, it's ten minutes later that Mr Bana carries in plates with grilled cheese sandwiches and opens the door to the flat even though there wasn't even a knock. Mr Mortensen is standing there, like he is some bloodhound with a nose for grilled cheese or something. So Liv interrupts bio and eats with them, while Mr Bana and Mr Mortensen have a conversation in code that no one but them understands. Liv thinks it might be about cricket but it could just as well be about taking over the world. Her sandwich isn't half bad, though.

When they leave again, dirty plates still on the coffee table, Mr. Bean starts reading a book and leaves Liv to bio again, and she is almost done when around three there is another knock on the door - not the same loud boom-boom that might as well have been Mr. Bana's foot against the wood, but three sharp and precise knocks. Mr Bean opens and it's Mr Bloom there. He is wearing a Manchester jersey and is carrying two bottles of wine because of course he is a fucking ManU fan and thinks it's totally normal to get drunk on bloody wine while watching the football. He is so fucking la-di-dah.

He gives her one look and honest, he isn't even Liv's house teacher but his looks are far more fucking intimidating than Mr. Bean's. And he asks, 'What have you done, then?' like he is her dad or something. Liv mutters something and Mr Bloom looks like he is about to tell her to sit up straight and speak up when Mr. Bean, behind him, lightly hits the back of his head and says 'Leave it, Orlando. Remember Christmas '93, eh'. - Because all teachers speak in fucking code, apparently. But wonder of wonders, Mr Bloom does shut up. He cleans away the dirty plates and ignores Bean's 'you don't have to do that'. Then he opens his pretentious wine and pours himself and Mr Bean some and turns the telly on.

At 3.10 Liv flips her laptop shut because she is done. 'Can I go now?' she wants to know and Mr Bloom gives her another look over the rim of his glass of wine but doesn't say anything. Mr Bean looks at his watch. 'Two more hours to go, Liv. Either come back after the football, or watch it with us.' Liv opens her mouth to argue but shuts it again when she sees that Mr Bloom is struggling to contain his laughter.

'Fine', she says and crosses her arms in front of her chest as she leans back. 'ManU is shit, though. I'm rooting for Tottenham.' 

***

'So, a drama teacher walks into a bio class,' Gerry opens as he sits down next to Dominic in the staff room, five minutes before their break ends. 

Dominic, who is busy prodding a zippo with a biro, glances at him with a deep frown on his face.

'I think we need a new rule at this table', he says. 'No jokes before noon, and that's still ninty minutes off.'

Gerry smacks his lips and crosses his arms behind his head.

'Aye right. Try putting that to a vote, mate. It'll never pass. The Wonder Twins are never gonna go for it.'

Dominic doesn't even look at Dom and Billy; he has perfected zoning them out since 8 this morning when they sat at the breakfast table and started beatboxing Chrismas carols. Instead his eyes fix on Gerry, he holds up his zippo and lights it. The flame is satisfactorily bigger than before he started fiddling with it.

'I'll take my chances.'

Gerry pulls his eyebrows up in a comical version of horror, then he leans forward and blows the flame out.

'No, but really mate, I wasn't gonna tell a joke. I just realized something and thought you might appreciate the information.'

Dominic flicks the zippo shut and pokes it with the biro some more.

'Okay. I'm all ears.'

Gerry licks his lips, leans in and stage-whispers, 'Johnny is a complete bampot.'

'You don't say.'

'I'm not kidding. He borrowed my third form just now, and you'll never guess what for.'

'Ritual mass suicide?'

'New rule: No sarcasm before noon.'

'That's a great idea. Let's see how far that'll get you.'

'You want to hear my tale of woe or not, mate? And you'd better say yes because I'm gonna make you listen to it anyway.'

'I could just get up and walk away.'

'You wouldn't.'

'I wouldn't?'

'If you tried, I'd feel justified to just keep you here by sitting on you. Then you'd have to listen to my story while having me sitting in your lap. Do you want that?'

'Not particularly, no.'

Gerry laughs in satisfaction, even more so when he manages to snatch the zippo from Dominic's hand.

'Okay, I'll be quick.'

'That'd be a first.'

'Shut up for fuck's sake! Honestly, you're worse than my second formers. Did I tell you -'

Dominic snatches the zippo back.

'One story at a time, Gerry, okay?' 

He lights a fire and waves it from side to side the littlest bit as if that will get Gerry to focus. Gerry's eyes indeed follow the flame for a second or two, then he grins and picks up the rather mangled looking banana that is perched on his crooked pile of bio books.

'Right, okay. So, just now, I was busy embarrassing the fuck out of my third formers by showing them how to roll condoms on bananas -'

'As you do.'

'Right. So, half the class had a proper beamer, and that's when the door is slammed open like this was some big theatre entrance, and I was like, what is this an impromptu inspection, why do they always catch me with condom wrappers between my teeth?'

'You do realize that it's not safe to open them that way, don't you?'

'I had my hands full!' As if to emphazise his point, Gerry waves with the banana before he starts to peel it while he continues. 'It wasn't an inspection, though, it was Johnny and he wanted to borrow my class. Now, usually, they have enough sense of self-preservation to not volunteer to go with him, yeah, but for some reason they all jumped up instantly this time.'

He bites a huge chunk off the banana and hums with pleasure. Dominic looks from the penis-stand-in in Gerry's hand to his mouth, then back to the banana.

'No idea why', he says dryly. 

Gerry nods enthusiastically.

'I know, right? Anyroad, Johnny took them all and I started cleaning my labspace and whatever, and that took me a good twenty minutes or something like that. Which was when I decided that it'd look bad on my CV if Johnny sold my pupils into slavery, so I went to check up on them. And guess what he'd done?'

'It's Johnny. There is no way any sort of logical reasoning will help me here.'

Gerry bursts out laughing and nearly spits banana in Dominic's face. Dominic very carefully pushes his chair slightly more out of Gerry's reach.

'Go on then, what did he do?'

Still laughing, Gerry puts the banana peel back down onto his books, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and pulls out his phone. 

'Have a swatch', he says and holds out the phone for Dominic to see.

It shows a photo of the library, a very pleased looking Johnny in the foreground, flanked by a couple of third formers that apparently don't know whether to look amused, freaked out, or embarrassed. Behind them, almost reaching the ceiling, looms... well, Dominic reckons it's supposed to be a modern art Christmas tree installation. Its shape vaguely resembles that of one at least; a thick solid bottom that is thinning out towards the top. It is, however, made entirely out of books. Which explains why all the shelves are empty.

Dominic hands the phone back to Gerry.

'You do realize,' he says slowly, 'that Christopher will have an aneurism, right?'

Gerry shrugs.

'It's kinda funny, isn't it.'

Dominic nods.

'Hilarious. Christopher'll also be looking for someone to crucify for this. For instance the person who was supposed to supervise this bunch of misguided youths.'

Gerry pulls a face, crosses his arms in front of his chest and looks at the ceiling.

'Dom, mate,' he then says and looks back at Dominic. 'What's on your schedule next?'

'Physics, sixth form.'

'Any chance, I can borrow a few kids?' 

***

A horde of first formers tramples up the staircase, momentarily interrupting Dom's and Orlando's in-between-classes conversation.

Orlando gives their collective behinds a stern look, but Dom just picks up where they left off.

'Cheap perfume', he says.

'Hairspray', Orlando counters immediately.

'Sweat.'

'Feet.'

'Desperation.'

Orlando shakes his head as he holds the door for Dom.

'Doesn't count.'

'Why not?'

Orlando throws him the same look he just gave Monica for constantly calling Diogenes Diagonal.

'Because it's an abstract idea, stupid, not a smell.'

'It is when you're supervising exams in fifth form.'

'Okay, what does it smell like then?'

Dom thinks about it for a moment, kicking an empty plastic bottle that someone dropped down the hallway.

'Kind of rank?'

'Like sweat and feet? Cause we had those already.'

'Nah, more like ', Dom adjusts his backpack, so it doesn't slide off when he starts waving his arms about frantically. 'OMG, if I fuck this up, my life is totes over.'

Orlando frowns at him and picks up the empty bottle before they round the corner.

'Those are the same words you used to describe love last week.'

Dom shoulders open the next connecting door, nearly squashing two girls hunched over a phone right behind it.

'What's your point, Orlando?'

'Love and exam stress are not the same thing.'

'Agree to disagree. Ever heard of performance anxiety?'

That elicits a smile from Orlando, and he leans against the wall next to the bio lab as Dom searches for his keys, pupils starting to crowd behind him.

'Fine,' Orlando concedes. 'It's still not a smell, so it can't linger in the air and permanently damage your nose.'

Dom finds his keys and opens the door, putting on his thinking face as his next class streams past.

'Desperation smells of milk turned bad, trackies that you forgot in your gym bag for a month, and just a hint of bogies.'

A small blond girl with pigtails looks up at him.

'Ew, Mr Monaghan! That's pure vile!'

Orlando uses his hand not holding his textbooks to gesture at her.

'What she said. - Are you up for lunch at the pub later?'

'Yeah, sure. After this period?'

Orlando nods and pushes himself away from the wall.

'You're on. Oh and Dom?'

Dom turns around in the doorway.

'Yeah?' 

'Bogies don't smell. So, I win.' 

***

Viggo looks up from the box filled with truly questionable designs for Christmas cards his first formers have drawn (there is no way anyone is going to pay money for any of these, and Viggo is including the parents in that equation) when Eric enters the staff room. He's got his third pile of tests stuffed under his arm, and he nearly runs over Christopher who is having a staring match with Gerry. As much as that collision would have entertained Viggo normally (and might have gotten Gerry out of the detention he is apparently headed for), Viggo can't bring himself to be amused by it. When Eric collapses in his chair with a loud sigh, it's not just the ostentatious, mocking one, but something like real exhaustion.

Viggo shows up at Eric's - Christmas card box in his hand - around nine and finds Eric on the couch. He has a smudge of red ink spreading over most of his lower lip, looking like a bruise, and Viggo sees untidy piles of classwork on the coffee table as well as on the couch itself. Eric just briefly looks up, then goes back to grading and muttering about the stupidity of his pupils.

Viggo puts the Christmas cards onto Eric's printer and watches how Eric cracks the end of another ballpoint pen because he is chewing on it with too much force. Without looking up from the text perched on his knee, Eric cusses and tosses the pen in the general direction of the bin next to the TV before picking up another one. Viggo goes into the kitchen to pluck the coffee maker in.

When he returns to the living room, carrying the biggest mug he could find, Eric does interrupt his work in order to lean his head back against the couch, look at Viggo upside down and whimper pitifully. The corners of Viggo's mouth twitch, and he puts the mug into Eric's hand who manages to spill only a little of the hot coffee it contains onto the paper on his thigh. He briefly closes his eyes and sighs when Viggo's hands drop down onto his shoulders to give them a squeeze. It's not a massage because getting rid off the tight knots in his shoulders would require way more time which Eric doesn't have at the moment, deadlines and all.

So, Viggo fetches his box and a mug for himself, clears a pile of tests from the sofa and gets comfortable next to his mate. He starts sorting through the Christmas cards, prepared to shake Eric awake repeatedly within the next couple of hours. 

***

'I feel old', Sean says, sitting next to Orlando on the park bench in front of the science building during the ten minute break.

'What I've been telling you for years', Orlando says without looking up from his phone.

Sean looks over his shoulder, but it's honestly too cold for any kids to linger outside out of their own volition. He lights a cigarette.

'You know what happened in my lower sixth right now?' he asks after taking the first drag.

Orlando hums, signalling that he is listening, even if his eyes are still glued to the screen of his phone.

'I was in the middle of explaining – oh, it doesn't matter – anyway, despite the rules I heard at least six text message alerts going off simultaneously at five to two. Six. Subsequently, half the class had ants in their pants and couldn't get out of the room fast enough when I called a break. I'm losing my touch.'

A rare smile tugs at Orlando's lips.

'At 1.55, you say?'

Sean nods.

'You are out of touch,' Orlando says with his usual lack of kindness. 'Those weren't alerts for text messages.'

Sean takes another drag before putting the cigarette out as he sees a couple of hunched over sixth formers in the entrance of the science building.

'No?'

'No.' Orlando shuffles a little closer to Sean and starts typing into his phone. 'Skam update on NRK.'

'I didn't understand a word you just said.'

Orlando looks at him pityingly, then holds out his phone so Sean can look at the screen as well and shows him. 

Sean is late for his next period. 

***

'I think this will be a catastrophe', Eric mutters with his eyes firmly fixed on the stage, wedged between Viggo and Sean.

'This is a catastrophe', Viggo corrects him, pretty much radiating glee, while a forelorn first former crab-walks across the stage, wearing a very crappy star-shaped costume.

'Will you two shut it', Sean says because the Star of Bethlehem in in his house and he feels responsible. However, he can't help but snicker himself when another tiny human emerges, wearing a XXXL wool jumper whose pattern spells out 'SHEEP'. It earns him a snide look from Orlando.

'Seriously? Can't you just let them rehearse in peace? I'm gonna throw all three of you out if you're being like that', he hisses under his breath.

'Oh really, mate', Eric laughs, 'you and what army?'

'Yeah, what army?' Viggo echoes, much too amused to be able to hide it. 'Certainly not the horribly anachronistic members of the Mossad over there.'

The aforementioned squad consists of five girls in cameo outfit and machine guns who lurk next to the nativity scene on stage. Johnny has obviously come up with this whole thing while under the influence.

'No, of course not' Orlando replies calmly. 'I'll get Karl and Gerry to do it.'

Karl, everyone can believe that. Karl likes wrestling people to the ground for no reason. And Gerry? Gerry can be convinced to switch sides for as little as a Mars bar.

Eric, however, makes a dismissive gesture nonetheless.

'Like I'm scared of that sheepshagger.'

As if that reminds him, Sean ignores the arrival of the three holy men (one wearing a business suit, one carrying Lidl bags, one mostly hidden behind a giant map) and leans a little closer to Eric. 

'Been meaning to ask: You're flying home over the break?'

Eric nods enthusiastically.

'On the 24th, at...'

When he hesitates for a moment, Viggo finishes for him, '7.50 a.m. from Manchester.' 

'Means we have to get up in the middle of the night.'

Viggo laughs. 'You book the flight next time, if that'll stop you from bitching. At least I only got us one layover only in Dubai.' He looks at Sean and gestures at Eric. 'That one wanted to book a flight that'd have taken us 40 fucking hours.'

'Yeah, yeah', Eric answers with a smile. 'Whatever you say, mate.' 

'I just hope that they have more decent in-flight movies this year. I'm not having any more of that romcom shit from last year.'

'I told you that they don't have porn there, ever', Eric replies his grin growing broader yet.

Orlando reaches across to smack him.

'Seriously, take this the fuck outside or stop fucking talking about fucking porn in front of the kids.'

He may have said that a little loud because two lanky third formers holding up the tarpaulin that is supposed to be the roof, look their way with comically large eyes. Sean, Viggo, and Eric suppress their laughter with varying degrees of success. Orlando just adopts his 'I am a serious adult' glare until the kids look away again.

'You're going with again, then?' Sean resumes the conversation, his words this time directed at Viggo.

'Course he is', Eric answers. 'We're staying at my sister's hotel, and Viggo didn't leave the suite he had last year.'

'You mean broom closet.'

Eric laughs at that, and considering that the Bana's hotel prides itself for its five stars, that's about all the response needed.

'How about you?' he then asks Sean back.

'Staying here', Sean says with a shrug. The Star of Bethlehem trips over his own feet and lands on his face. Even Orlando's lips twitch. Lazily Sean gestures at the stage. 'Someone's gotta look after this lot.'

Viggo shakes his head.

'You're something like a saint, for always volunteering. I'm gonna propose sainthood for you with the big guy in Rome. Next summer; I mean it.'

'We're doing Rome again next summer?' Eric asks and pulls a face, as two 'SHEEP' kids try to get the Star back onto his feet but mostly manage to drag him back and forth. 'I hate it there.'

'Why, did a pigeon shit on your head?' Orlando asks without taking his eyes of the scene on the stage.

Sean snorts with laughter and so does Viggo.

'ONE?' Eric asks back, scandalized. 'Have you ever BEEN to Rome? The second you step out of the hotel, they zone in on you. Like it's a Hitchcock movie.'

'Yeah, right, Tippi Hedren.'

'What about you?' Viggo asks Orlando. 'You driving down to see the parents?'

Orlando huffs and if you looked very closely, you could see his features harden minutely. 

'No, I'm not.'

'Someone's gotta look after me, looking after this lot', Sean says after a pause. 'Eh?'

Orlando looks at him, then at Viggo, then back at Sean. He nods.

'Right.'

The tiniest of first formers creeps onto the stage, dressed as a hippie version of baby Jesus, and Eric throws his arms in the air like he is attempting a one-man Mexican wave. He accidentally hits Viggo in the face. 

***

The upside on one's birthday falling on a Saturday in December?

It's 9.30 p.m. and Bernard and Marianne returned from a birthday dinner ten minutes ago. That's when the doorbell rings, and upon opening, Bernard finds Sean, Cate, and Dom there, singing Happy Birthday loud enough to wake Bernard's elderly neighbours. They may be a bit tipsy already. Also they are dressed as the three wise men, using what appears to be Cate's silk shawls for makeshift turbans.

Bernard gladly takes their offerings of booze, booze, and more booze, then tells Marianne he'll be out for a while. Because on his birthday, Bernard is Jesus, and Jesus decides that they need to prank Viggo. 

***

'God, could you look any more like a chav?' Orlando says instead of a hello as Sean opens his door.

Sean looks down at himself, the bowl of cereals, his trackpants, his mismatched socks. 

'Can't all be looking like we're coming from church, can we?'

Orlando scowls at him at that and tugs at the collar of his shirt.

'Arsehole.'

Sean shoves a spoonful of cereal into his mouth.

'What did I tell you about swearing on my doorstep, Orlando?'

That actually gets him something of a smile before Orlando nods at the flat.

'You're gonna let me in, or shall I come back later when you've had time to hide the evidence?'

'Evidence?'

'Honestly, you're the worst liar in the history of lying', Orlando says, entirely unimpressed. 'I'd bet my bike that you didn't even hide the stuff you stole from Viggo last night.'

Another spoonful of cereal buys Sean maybe a second. He shakes his head.

'No idea what you're talking about.'

Orlando rolls his eyes and stuffs his hands into the pockets of his slacks.

'Right. Are you gonna invite me in now or what?'

Orlando never just pushes past or (like certain other people that Sean, Bernard, Dom, and Cate did spend burgling last night) climbs through the window. He always waits until he is invited in; like a copper who hasn't got a search warrant or (Viggo's words, not Sean's) like a vampire.

'C'mon in, then', Sean says and steps aside. 'If you're having one of your sensitive days, ignore whatever it is you think you see on the dining table.'

Orlando doesn't, of course. Instead he makes a bee line for said table, like a well-trained narcotics detection dog. Sean watches and eats as Orlando picks up the small plastic satchels, opens a few of them and sniffs their contents.

'Seriously, most of this shit will give you an absolute fucker of a headache', he concludes and shakes his head in distaste. 'Where does Viggo get his weed from, a fucking first former?'

'Not everyone can be best mates with the resident drug lord', Sean answers and wipes milk from his lips with the sleeve of his jumper before he puts the bowl down.

Orlando snorts.

'Drug lord, my arse. Don't let Dom hear that or his head'll explode. Some kingpin he'd make.'

Sean steps next to Orlando and looks down at the satchels of different sizes that are strewn over the table. Breaking into Viggo's rooms was so damn easy, they managed it drunk and with just Cate's credit card as a tool. Granted, the noise they made (especially Bernard when he ran into Viggo's artificial Chrismas tree and tumbled to the floor with it) would've woken even the soundest of sleepers, but Viggo wasn't in, most probably staying at Eric's as usual.

'He really shouldn't be leaving that stuff just lying around', Sean says, letting teacherly disappointment tone his voice.

Orlando smirks and picks up one of the smaller satchels.

'No, he shouldn't. Anyone could take it and light up.'

Sean looks at the weed that Orlando apparently deemed smoke-worthy and arches his brows in a suggestion. He then goes to look for some rolling paper.

'Anything in particular you wanted?' he asks while rummaging through a kitchen drawer. 'Or did you come here with this in mind?'

When he turns around again, Orlando has sat himself down on one of the comfy chairs and shakes his head.

'Nah, I wanted to ask you something.'

'You know I don't do advice.'

Orlando laughs at that.

'You're mistaking giving advice with giving useful advice, mate.'

Sean sits down on the couch and drops the small tin can that contains rolling paper and a lighter onto the coffee table.

'And yet here you are.'

'Yeah, I thought stupid romantic getaways, who might be the expert on that, and I came to the conclusion I should hit up the resident serial womanizer.'

Sean chuckles at Orlando's ultra dry tone of voice and props his feet up on the coffee table.

'You're looking to surprise Kate?'

'It's Katy, Sean', Orlando corrects with a roll of his eyes. 'I've been seeing her for almost a year now, you can at least try getting her name right. But seriously now, two days, over New Year's, what do you recommend?'

Sean stares at the ceiling long enough for Orlando to get restless, pick up the weed and the tin can and roll a neat joint.

Then finally he says, 'Booze Cruise to Ibiza.'

The ready joint between his lips, Orlando pauses in his his attempt to light it.

'You're such a fucking chav.' 

***

'Are you free this afternoon?' Viggo asks as he puts down his tray with lunch next to Eric's. He doesn't wait for Eric's response, though. 'Cause I need someone to help me bury Orlando's body.'

Eric licks grease from his lips (spare ribs day is his favourite day in the entire month) and shrugs lightly.

'Sure, if you want. What's he done this time?'

December is not a good month for peace and quiet. It seems with all the Christmas cheer around, Orlando doubles his efforts to be an atheistic grouch. Not that he generally has difficulties in that area; at this rate, being in the same room with him riles Viggo, and Orlando doesn't even have to do anything.

Viggo pulls a face and points one of his spare ribs accusingly in Orlando's direction. Orlando, seated between Sean and Karl, is of course eating his ribs using cutlery. He is an absolute weirdo, but that's nothing new.

'He stole my weed.'

'Vig,' Eric says, carefully because Eric loves Viggo, but once Viggo has decided on something it is pretty impossible to dissuade him. 'Bernard gave it back to you last night. And he even confessed.'

'He's a scapegoat,' Viggo insists, nibbling at his rib and throwing Orlando dirty looks like he really wishes he was gnawing on Orlando's throat instead. 'I know it was Orlando.'

'Must've been some elaborate plan,' Eric says peacably. 'I mean considering I was texting him about that Christmas do on Wednesday all night.'

'He could've done that while breaking in. Do you think that Dom West has enough computer skills to pull Orlando's GPS data for his phone?'

Eric looks over to where Dom West is seated next to Gerry. As per usual, Gerry is talking and animatedly waving his hands around like he is trying to impersonate a windmill on crack, while Dominic's reactions need to be measured in micro-expressions.

'I don't think he can do that', Eric says. 'Or maybe he does. Maybe he branched out to cyber terrorism.'

Momentarily distracted by that notion, Viggo sucks on the bone he already picked clean and gazes over to Gerry and Dominic. Gerry notices and waves. Dominic looks at Gerry as if Gerry was mental, then says something that makes Gerry splutter orange juice over the table.

'Yeah, okay, maybe not', Viggo concedes. 'But I know that Orlando smoked some, I just do. Just look at him.'

Obligingly, Eric looks back at Orlando who is listening to whatever Sean and Karl simultaneously are trying to tell him. Instead of his usual frown, he actually listens patiently, nods a couple of times, and doesn't interrupt or snark or do anything else... Orlando'ish. And that is, even though, when Eric walked past them five minutes ago after getting seconds, he knows for a fact that he heard the word 'Ibiza'.

'Yeah, I kinda see your point', he therefor agrees after another couple of moments. 'He's never that... human when he isn't stoned.'

It's partly a joke, but Viggo just nods with a grim expression on his face.

'Aw, fuck,' Eric says abruptly and shakes his head. 'I can't, this afternoon. Help you bury his body, I mean. I have a department meeting.'

Viggo, teeth buried in the meat of his next spare rib, growls in response. Eric raises his shoulders in a silent apology.

'Sorry, but if I don't show, Christopher will kill me. And then you'd have two funerals to organize in a week.' He picks up another rib and looks at it lovingly, then he uses it to point at Orlando who is now laughing (seriously, he HAS to be high) at something Karl said. 'Tell you something, though. I confiscated a bag of Christmas elf glitter during rounds last night -'

'What on earth is 'elf glitter'?'

'Stripper glitter, really. But Eva McShannon didn't want to fess up to moonlighting as a showgirl, so she told me it was elf glitter. Anyway, my point is, I have about a pound worth of that shit just lying around.'

'And?'

Eric licks his lips, looks at Viggo, grins.

'Monday night is laundry night for Orlando, isn't it?' 

***

Liv needs new mates. She is dead serious about that.

Because it's the first period, philosophy, and Mr Bloom walks in in his stupid grey slacks, grey cardigan with stupid elbow patches, black shirt, and starts talking about Plato before he even put his books down.

And of fucking course Liv notices, fuck, even Hector notices, and he sits in the last row and is playing with his balls through his pockets (and Liv so wishes she hadn't noticed that. Well gross.). But it's Mo and only Mo who goes all big eyed and interrupts Mr Bloom's monologue on uber-humans or something, by blurting out, 'Mr Bloom, you're totally wearing glitter. Are you gay??'

In the silence that follows, Liv's groan is very loud. 

Mr Bloom's face doesn't move. He looks down at his shirt that is covered in glitter, so there is no way he hasn't noticed. Then he sits down at his desk and launches a twenty minute speech on the history of blokes getting it on with blokes and how glitter does not, at any point, come into it.

And seriously, it's 2016, like anyone cares about being gay or whatever. Liv wouldn't even give a damn if Mr Bloom was fucking Mr Bean (okay, she would, because they are both well old and that's proper disgusting). What she does care about is that thanks to Mo, she now has to listen to one of her teachers talk about assfucking and, worse, love and that is just enough to make her wanna vom.

Urgh. 

***

'I am massively pleased that you came to me with this,' Dom says, way too loud, considering the circumstances.

Orlando shushes him and makes a silent and impatient gesture at the door to Eric's rooms. Dom looks over his shoulder twice and is the personification of shifty and suspicious, and really he is shit company for breaking and entering. But Karl is busy with rugby practice on the outer field, and Sean has couched two Lower Sixers for indecent exposure on said field last night, now most probably in the middle of his lecture about safe sex and how rolling around in the mud is not it.

'For fuck's sake, Dom, it's five thirty in the afternoon', Orlando mutters and tugs at his mate's shoulder to get him up from his knees. 'Just try and act normal, you idiot. There us no need for lock-picking'

Once Dom is on his feet again, Orlando pushes him off the doormat and retrieves the spare key that Eric hides under it.

They let themselves in and Orlando rolls his eyes at Dom's ridiculous tiptoeing, and Dom whispers to him that he is a fuckhead who sucks all the fun out of life; the usual.

They stop dead the second they enter the living room. Because Eric was supposed to be with Gerry, preparing the gym for the Christmas bash tomorrow. It's why Orlando chose this time for his retaliation. However, it seems that Gerry roped someone else into helping him or just wanted the balloons and tinsel all for himself. Because Eric isn't out. He is sprawled out on his sofa, his head hanging over the side, fast asleep.

'He looks like a giant sloth,' Dom whispers, snickering. 'If sloths grew to be 6'2'' and had little enough taste to wear knitted Christmas jumpers.'

Orlando shakes his head.

'Not a sloth', he corrects, 'Kangaroo.'

And Orlando is right, of course, like he usually is. The national animal from Eric's homeland carries its offspring with itself in a pouch on its belly. Only that in Eric's case, it isn't a precious baby kangaroo that he is cradling to his stomach with both his hands, but Viggo's head. Viggo lies on his belly between Eric's legs, his own mostly hanging off the other end of the sofa. He is also fast asleep.

'What the fuck', murmurs Dom, and it sounds like cooing and mockery both. He nudges Orlando's side. 'Man, if that was an attempted blow job, they need some serious help. Cause who falls asleep during a blow job, and they aren't even naked.'

He knows, of course, as well as Orlando that this isn't a life-sized diorama of how to not give head.

They both freeze when Viggo shifts on the couch as if the noise brought him to the edge of wakefulness. In response to the movement, Eric growls in his sleep and tightens his grip on Viggo's already hopeless hair, pushing his face back against his Christmas sweater. Viggo stills again, possibly smothered.

'Naaw, look at that, how adorable', Dom says and then nudges Orlando again. 'Now, let's find the keys to the Falcon already.'

The plan (Dom's plan, Orlando might add. He doesn't have the imagination of a first former.] was to relocate the big Christmas tree from Viggo's house and stuffing it into Eric's beloved car. But now, Orlando just shakes his head and gets his phone out instead.

'Nah, over it', he says and waves Dom's instant protest aside. He switches the camera function on and takes a picture of the scene in front of them. 'I do have the perfect Christmas card now, though. 

***

'Gerry?'

'Dom?'

'I don't think this is a clever strategy.'

'No idea what you mean, mate.'

'The sunshades, for starters.'

'What, I think they are the hight of fashion. Very 'Top Gun'. Very Tom Cruise.'

'Hm. Maybe. Still, suspicious.'

'You think?'

'Well, it's 8.30 in the morning for starters, and we're in the staff room. There isn't any need for sunshades unless you're trying to -'

'What? What's that gesture supposed to mean? That I'm secretly wearing mascara under these?'

'Yes, because that's what this is about. You wearing Make Up to school. Of course it isn't. I was refering to the bags under your eyes, clear sign for heavy boozing.'

'I didn't booze, mate.'

'I saw you do the chicken dance last night.'

'So?'

'First of all, who does the chicken dance on a Christmas party?'

'I was teaching those second formers how to do it. They asked.'

'Hm. Yes. Just following your calling as a dance instructor, then.'

'You can call me Patrick Swayze.'

'I'd rather not.'

'You know, because of 'Dirty Dancing'.'

'Yes, I got the reference. I just disagree with your choice of cinematic role models.'

'What, you'd rather I quoted 'The Untouchables'? You know, prohibition and whatnot?'

'Don't know how much you remember from last night, Gerry, but 'Untouchable' was pretty much the opposite of your motto. I am pretty sure you tried feeling up Cate. And Sean.'

'Not sure which one is weirder.'

'The weird part is that Viggo filmed it.'

'Hey, West?'

'Hm.'

'Last night, after the Christmas do? I was on my way home through the village, and I ran into a nun. So, I walk over to her and slap her in the face.'

'What the -'

'Then I punch her in the stomach and knock her over.'

'Gerry -'

'So, I give kicking and when I'm done, I bend down to her and am like, "Not so tough tonight, are you Batman?" Hahaha.'

'I don't even know why I am friends with you.'

'It's because of the shades and my dance moves, mate.'

'Yeah. No.' 

***

As soon as the plane is above 10.000 feet, Viggo switches his mobile on again, the nervous twitching of his leg instantly stopping. During the 'all devices must be switched off' period, Eric more or less successfully distracted his phone-addicted best mate by reading the safety instructions to him in a very politically uncorrect Melbourne accent and taking wild guesses which of the in-flight movie titles might actually be code for porn until the flight attendant gave him the stink eye. Now, he relaxes in his seat by the window, eats Viggo's bag of complimentary peanuts and watches as Viggo scrolls through his usual websites and reads his messages.

'So, world ended in the last half hour?', he asks with amusement as he always does because Viggo is actually physically incapable of surviving without his phone for longer than twenty minutes.

'Possibly', Viggo answers and leans a little closer so Eric can see the display of his phone. It shows a Whatsapp message from Sean that consists of just a photo of a quite distressed looking second former trying to climb the (already alarmingly crooked) Christmas tree in Jackson College's entrance hall.

'I swear, we leave them alone for five minutes and they take the whole place apart', Viggo says with a fond smile while Eric ponders whether Sean did at least save the boy from being crushed by the tree after he took the photo.

The flight attendant walks past and ignores Eric's broad smile and attempt to catch her eye so he can ask her for a drink. Ah, well. In the meantime, Viggo has just finished typing his reply, when his phone announces another message. With his shoulder pressed against Eric's anyway, Viggo just needs to tilt his phone a little bit for Eric to be able to read the new text. 

It is from Orlando and it simply reads "Merry Christmas". 

Technically, it's still the 24th in the UK, but Eric supposes that Orlando, who is the most anal person in the history of ever, sat down and calculated in which time zone Eric and Viggo would be right now - Dubai, their layover airport on their way to Melbourne, is four hours ahead of York, so technichally it is Christmas Day for them, even if only just. However, the message itself is, coming from Orlando, slightly surprising.

'Huh,' Eric grunts and nudges Viggo's shoulder. 'Look who is feeling the Christmas spirit this -'

He stops when, in quick succession, two more messages appear on the screen. 

"Since you believe in that ridiculous shit." and "My love to your Australian elf".

Viggo scoffs and shakes his head.

'Aw,' Eric says dryly. 'Isn't that sweet of the little fucker. What do we reply?'

Viggo looks at him and then switches his phone to camera mode. He shuffles closer yet and leans the side of his head against Eric's as Eric slings his arm around his shoulder. Holding the phone away from them, Viggo sticks out his tongue and Eric raises both his hands, giving the camera the finger.

Merry fucking Christmas indeed. 

***

It's three o'clock in the afternoon, when Orlando leaves the main building's common room, trusting the game of Mario Kart to keep the kids entertained for a while. He makes his way through the empty halls, past his classroom door that some idiot decorated with nativity scene stickers to which Orlando had allowed his lower sixth to add their favourite footie players. 

When he enters the library, he half expects Robert Ryan and Maria Dayton there - he's caught them with their pants down (sadly, not just metaphorically) thrice in the last three days alone; they both seem to be big into exhibitionism and it'll be such a fucking joy to have to supervise them in the next two weeks. But for once, he is lucky and there is no one in the library at all, the ceiling light revealing just rows and rows of quiet books, and Orlando's favourite table by the window beckons. He figures he has an hour or so to himself until he has to make good on his promise to bake with the handful of disproportionally overweight members of the baking club. No matter what he likes people to believe, puppy dog eyes have the same effect on him as they do on everyone else.

For the time being, he is alone. On his way to the window, he picks up a book from the philosophy shelf, doesn't even look at the title, but grins when it turns out to be Feuerbach's 'Essence of Christianity'. As he sits down, pushes on of the other chairs back and props his feet onto it, he flips to the borrowers history on the last page, and it makes him laugh of course. Next to the dates, it's his name and Viggo's taking turns, and that is probably how it will continue until the list runs out of space.

As the sky outside grows from light to dark grey, he re-reads random paragraphs and repeatedly reaches for a pen to take notes only to find the table in front of himself empty of course. 

He removes his feet from the chair when the door to the library is pushed open, leaves them on the carpet even when he sees it's not an impressionable kid but Sean walking in. He let himself in with a push of his shoulder since both his hands are full with two steaming mugs, one of which he puts down in front of Orlando. Orlando wants to remark that drinks in the library are absolutely prohibited and Christopher will leather him once he finds out, and he will find out because he was trained by the KGB, Orlando is fairly certain. However, he is also fairly sure that Sean will take the mug away again if he said something, and from the smell alone he can tell it contains Sean's secret receipe of mulled wine. It's riciulously sweet and pretty much the nicest thing Christmas has to offer.

So he nods his thanks, puts his feet up again, and ignores Sean's pointed look at his shoes on the chair, at his book of choice. Sean turns to stack books from the history shelves onto one of the larger tables. With books it is as it is with food with Sean, he just can't get enough.

They read in silence, Orlando enjoying Feuerbach - "If man is to find contentment in God, he must find himself in God." and Sean building the Great Wall of China in paperbacks around himself. A quiet Christmas Day of Orlando's liking - until both their phones chirp simultaneously.

'Sorry to disturb', starts the message from Robert Jacob, 'but we kinda lost a first former in a game of hide and seek. Any chance she's with you, sirs?' 

***

From: Someecards  
Sent: Monday, 26.12. 2016 6:27  
To: s.bean@jackson-college.co.uk  
Subject: Viggo has sent you a card from someecards.com!

Hi Sean,  
Viggo (occasionallyiamjesus@gmail.com) has sent you an ecard:

Message:  
"G'day mate,

I hope you and the devil's spawn survived Christmas and the kids didn't deem it necessary to cook you instead of the turkey (Eric wants to know if the turkey was delicious and wants me to remind you to tell Cook to put some aside for him).

Christmas in Oz is as good as ever; Eric already have a massive sunburn because he NEEDED to go surfing immediately after our plane landed and our luggage -as always - got lost and with it the sun lotion. His sister only calls him 'lobster boy' and told him not to show his face to the hotel guests in fear of scaring them off.

Anyway, I hope you have a good two weeks ahead of you. If I recall that correctly, he-who-must-not-be-named wasn't able to convince the woman he conned into being in a relationship with him to go to Ibiza with him over New Year? In that case, have fun with him. Maybe Bernie will grant you asylum.

Cheers,  
Vig"  
If this card went to your junk mail or bulk mail folder, please add "dispatch@someecards.com" to your address book.

Someecards respects your privacy. If you have questions please review our Privacy Policy (http://www.someecards.com/page/privacy) and Terms of Service (http://www.someecards.com/page/terms).

 

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Someecards, Inc. | PO Box 695 | New York | NY | 10159

***

When Bernard knocks on Sean's door, he is not surprised that Orlando opens. The green paper crown on his head is maybe a bit odd, Christmas being officially over. But when Bernard follows him inside he finds that Sean is wearing one as well, and so does the assorted bunch of first to third formers sprouting from Sean's carpet like mushrooms.

All of them look at him with excitement, including Sean but that might be attributed to the burgundy on the coffee table. Sean takes Bernard's coat and scarf, and two of the miniature book enthusiasts get up from their knees to get a look at the book that Bernard bought before he even has a chance of sitting down on the infamous Sofa.

Orlando, too, gives the book's cover a curious glance while pouring wine into the third glass.

'Aaaaarrr', he comments on it, voice low and rough.

This completely uncharacteristic display of swashbuckling leaves the kids in stunned confusion. Bernard grins. 

'Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum', he replies and takes a swig of wine. 

Sean, as always, is the one who enjoys their kid's bafflement the least. As he sits down in his favourite armchair, he lets them off the hook.

'Mr Hill brought 'Treasure Island' for you,' he explains. 'You're gonna love it, it's got lots of pirates in it.'

'Prepare for lots of interruptions from Mr Bean regarding historical inaccuracies,' Orlando says with a smile.

Bernard knows for a fact that it is Orlando who is the closeted piracy buff and that includes fencing lessons all through his lower sixth (or maybe that was someone else). But Sean doesn't say anything, just winks at Orlando and gestures at Bernard to get going already.

So, the annual post-Christmas meeting of Jackson College's book club has officially started. Three of the kids simultaneously stuff two home-made (i.e. crooked) cookies each into their cheeks, and everyone just stares at Bernard. Bernard eats a cookie himself (delicious), then opens the book.

'Chapter One - Squire Trewelany, Dr. Livesey, and the rest of these gentlemen having asked me to write down the whole particulars about Treasure Island, from the beginning to the end, keeping nothing back but the bearings of the island, and that only because there is still treasure not yet lifted, I take up my pen in the year of grace 17something and go back to the time when my father kept the Admiral Benbow inn and the brown old seaman with the sabre cut first took up his lodging under our roof - ' 

***

From: Liv D.-S.  
Sent: Wednesday, 28.12.2016 4:23  
To:  
Subject: Homework

Dear Mr Bana,

first of, I wanted to tell you that I've already finished the homework you have us over the holidays. You told us to calculate [the Christmas Price Index](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Christmas_Price_Index) for 2016. It is £ 127.960.84,27. So, now that I've handed that in well early, I don't have to list all the prices for the stuff in that stupid carol, right? Cuz nobody even knows what a bloody partride is, do they?

Second of, I got your private email address from Mr Bloom, and he only gave it to me under the condition that I tell you something. And a promise is a promise and all that, even though you all are proper mangy. So the message is: 'Tell the hippie to use aloe on you, you muppet.' Whatever that is supposed to mean. And before you ask, I can't tell you if he is having a go or not, he was acting all earnest but Mr Bean was totally losing it at the same time, so it's anyone's guess.

Merry Christmas and whatnot.  
Liv

***

'Yeah?'

'Gerry? Is that you?'

'No, Dominic, I'm terribly sorry, this is Gerry's mother. I'm afraid he can't come out and play today.'

'As much as I admire your acting skills, not even you can pull off an elderly woman.'

'Don't let my mother hear you call her elderly or she'll skelp ya.'

'Yeah, yeah. Listen, I rang because I just got a parcel from the postman.'

'Aw, it only arrived today? Bummer.'

'So it _is_ from you?'

'Put my name on the thing, didn't I?'

'Well, considering the content, I thought I should make sure.'

'It was supposed to arrive yesterday. It would have made more sense then, obviously.'

'I don't think I agree with you there.'

' _On the fifth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me_ -'

'Gerry?'

'Yeah, mate?'

'I don't mean to interrupt, but you sending me wedding bands in the mail and now serenading me - are you trying to tell me something here?'

'What? No! What gave you that idea?'

'I just told you. You sent me wedding bands and -'

'Aye, aye, I know. But that wasn't meant as a come on.'

'I'm very relieved to hear that.'

'Oi, no need to be rude, mate.'

'I'm never rude.'

'Haha, have you met yourself? You're always rude. Especially when you're being polite.'

'That doesn't make sense.'

'Remind me to never buy you anything again.'

'Which brings us back to the point - why did you sent me five golden rings? And Gerry, I swear, if you start singing that blasted carol again -'

'What, now you don't like my singing voice either?'

'No, you have a lovely singing voice, and I'd gladly listen to you sing entire arias to me.'

'Fuck off, Dom.'

'I mean it, though. But I still rather get an explanation than a song.'

'I got them at a thrift sale of sorts that my sis dragged me to last Friday.'

'Is that a Butler family tradition? Buying Christmas gifts in thrift stores two days before Christmas Day?'

'Nah, would be a belter idea, though. My sister went cause she was selling off some of the childhood toys my parents still had in their attic.'

'And you were trying to stop her?'

'And I was the packing mule, mate. You won't believe how fucking heavy Legos are.'

'You sold your Lego? That's like selling your soul.'

'Now, who is being melodramatic? Anyroad, they didn't sell anyhow, so I had to drag them all the way back again at the end of the day.'

'Your life is filled with hardships.'

'It's kinda a first world problem, isn't it?'

'Kind of. So, you left with more than you came? To that thrift thing?'

'You mean because of the rings? Nah, we actually sold quite a lot of shit, some you wouldn't believe. And anyway, the rings, they were cheap and I remembered you wanted to do some gold experiement with your lower sixth.'

'Huh.'

'What? You were chewing my ear off about that Rutherford thing just the other night, weren't you? And for some reason, about plum pudding, which I'm rather partial to.'

'I got that when you started singing about plums. I wasn't talking about actual pudding though, but the fact that previous to the Rutherford Experiment the structure of the atom was thought to correspond with the plum pudding model and - anyway, not the point.'

'Which is?'

'I'm not trying to sound ungrateful here, considering, but you didn't really pay attention to most of what I said, did you?'

'See what I mean about being rude all the time, mate?'

'The Rutherford experiment, I'd need gold _foil_ for that and quite a lot of radioactive material.'

'Huh.'

'Yeah.'

'Mate?'

'Yes, Gerry?'

'Pretty sure Christopher won't let you play with radioactive shit in Jackson, mate.'

'No kidding.'

'Huh.'

'But thanks anyway, mate. Appreciated.'

'You're all right. But much more importantly now, what are you gonna do with the five golden rings?'

'I could wear one on each hand.' 

'Leaves three.'

'One on each ear.'

'Very pirate of you. Orlando will be so jealous. Leaves one.'

'Do you want it?'

'Dom?'

'Yes, Gerry?'

'Are you proposing to me over the fucking phone?!'

***

Sometimes Orlando pauses for a moment and asks himself how the fuck it is that he ended up where he is – this time it's the frozen foods section of the local TESCO, surrounded by what seems to be army suppliers, judging by the enormous amount of food they hoard in their trolleys. On a fucking Friday afternoon. Then he remembers – Sean, for all his nice bloke appearance, is deep down a con man.

'Sure you can skip chaperoning the New Year's do', he said, generously, as if that stupid party for the kids staying over the holidays hadn't been his idea (and thus responsibility) in the first place. 'I'll make sure they don't burn the house down or get too obviously plastered while you're gone. Anything for your love life, mate.'

Which is how Orlando got guilted – and Orlando normally doesn't do guilt; it's a waste of time and based on a set of morals and threatened reprecussions that he doesn't believe in – into doing the shopping for the party. With six kids in tow. He has no idea where any of them are. If he had to venture a guess, he'd say Mahdi Sahin is looking at dirty magazines and Larissa Madden is poking holes into overly ripe fruit (she has a very weird obsession with fruit, that one).

With a sigh, he starts stacking packets of ice cream lollies into his trolley. With packet number four he gets a weird look from a stressed-out elderly woman who apparently thinks he is some kind ice-cream pervert. Like she isn't gonna eat the giant Black forest cake in her trolley all on her own. He doesn't say anything though. Because tonight he is going to fly to Paris with Katy ('That is, like, the most clichéd thing anyone's ever given me for Christmas, Orlando. I abso-fucking-lutely love it!'), not not sit in a cell for initiating a slap-fight with a senior citizen next to the freezers.

'Can we get these?'

Orlando – as well as the nosy old bag – look up from the display of frozen goods at the question. Lisa Maher (the girl who got fucking turned around in the school on Chrismas Day and ended up in the boiler room of all places) and Michael Stetham appeared out of nowhere in front of them. They both are literally armed to the teeth with fireworks.

'Please, please?' Michael has the decency to add while Lisa just skips Orlando's reply and simply starts piling her haul into the trolley.

Orlando ignores Michael's Bambi eyes and blocks Lisa's way. Meanwhile, Michael's professional adorableness brought the old woman on his side.

'No way in hell', Orlando says. It earns him a pout from Michael and a disapproving headshake from the old hag. However, Lisa looks up at him defiantly.

'You don't believe in hell. You said that the idea of hell is used as a social control over the people to keep them in their place.'

Michael's pout makes way for an expression of confusion. The old woman tsks and gives Orlando the stink eye. With narrowed eyes, Orlando looks down at Lisa. 

'I didn't say it, Karl Marx did,' he corrects her. After a glance contents of their trolley, he turns back to the freezer. ' Put the Roman candles back, they are obnoxious. You can keep the rockets.'

***

From: Someecards  
Sent: Saturday, 31.12. 2016 11:58  
To: littleripper@ausi.co  
Subject: Viggo has sent you a card from someecards.com!

Hi Eric,  
Viggo (occasionallyiamjesus@gmail.com) has sent you an ecard:

Message:  
"Happy New Year, you."

If this card went to your junk mail or bulk mail folder, please add "dispatch@someecards.com" to your address book.

\-----------------

From: Someecards  
Sent: Sunday, 1.1. 2017 0:09  
To: occasionallyiamjesus@gmail.com  
Subject: Australia's Finest has sent you a card from someecards.com!

Hi Viggo,  
Australia's Finest (littleripper@ausi.co) has sent you an ecard:

Message:  
"WHY ARE YOU SENDING ME ECARDS WHEN I AM STANDING RIGHT NEXT TO YOU??? Also, why would you assume that I won't remember what you look like tomorrow, you drongo?"

If this card went to your junk mail or bulk mail folder, please add "dispatch@someecards.com" to your address book.

***

Sean's list of New Year resolutions (written around 3 a.m. on the back of a work sheet with tasks about the development of hygiene in the 19th century whilst waiting for Robert and Mo to finish vomitting their guts out in the lower floor toilets)

#1 Reinstate ~~prohibition~~ ~~corporal punishment~~ mandatory loo cleaning duties for sixth formers.  
#2 Stop volunteering to stay in Jackson over winter break.  
#3 Give Orlando hell for abandoning him this year and use the resulting guilt to get him to pay for a lads' weekend away. A proper one, not some odd trip to the middle of nowhere only to discover that Orlando wanted to visit some dead philosopher's grave. Remember: The fun of seeing Orlando regressing into a state resembling that of puberty-ridden goth is not worth the hassle of having to argue with him even more than usual. The only exception being the trip to Nuremberg and Feuerbach's resting place because of the railway museum just around the corner.  
#4 Get around to planning the summer holidays biking tour. Bulgaria maybe?  
#5 Never listen to Karl. Especially not when he is suggesting biking and camping in New Zealand and surviving on hunting skills.  
#6 Research long-term symptoms of scurvy.  
#7 Get in touch with [Daragh and the lads](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/236x/60/10/58/6010581f0051ca5899c0eb43e6337bc7.jpg) and put John in charge of planning their yearly get together. Possibly in the same Portuguese vinyard as last year. Definitely without the drunken shooting practice. Whose stupid idea was that anyway? Probably Jason's.  
#8 Re-stock on Portuguese wine.  
#9 Talk Eric and Bernard into having a cook-off at Bernard's and generously offer to judge.  
#10 Make peace with Christopher and convince him that joining forces in a prank war against Viggo and Eric is in the best interest of the school.  
#11 REINSTATE PROHIBITION. 

'Robert, will you be done chucking up any time this year? For Christ's sake, lad.'

***

Around four in the afternoon Sean considers changing his approach to education. It has worked for the last couple of decades, sure, his system of reward and punishment, understanding and firmness.

However, when he looks at Robert and Monica now, he isn't so sure about it any longer. Having them clean up the storage room under the backstairs was supposed to be punishment for spicing the punch (well, for not being a little clever about it). But they found a moving company sized cardboard box there about five minutes in, and it turned out it contained a couple of miniature steam engines, a rusty pickaxe, a coal miner's leather helmet and a model of a loom. Sean dimly recalls putting them there in the mid 90s, after finishing a project on the Industrial Revolution, and then forgetting about them entirely.

That is how, around four o'clock, Monica crouches in front of his coffee table with a firelighter in her hand, trying to get the steam engine to run, and Robert has upended the tool drawer in Sean's kitchen in search for a screwdriver small enough to fit the tiny screws of the loom.

This was supposed to be punishment. 

***

  
  
  
  


***

On the fourth of January, four - equally mundane - things happen simultaneously:

Sean nearly gets knocked out by Orlando's holdall when, in the waiting area of Leeds' airport, Orlando greets his chauffeur with a one armed hug. As hugs go, it's more on the awkward side.

Gerry, after temporarily his sister's grasp, falls prey to an overly enthusiastic shop assistant in a petrol station just outside Glasgow. He exits the shop with three barrel sized bottles of after shave smelling of pine trees. He isn't sure how that happened but figures he'll give one to West as a belated Christmas present. Gift horses and all.

In Australia, Eric goes to bed. Or rather he faceplants onto the mattress, it being really late and him being pretty shitfaced thanks to a lethal combination of Viggo and tequila. Or rather, he tries to faceplant onto the mattress but missed and ends up on the carpet.

In Jackson College, Robert and Mo decide that the now considerably more spacious closet under the staircase (what with most of Mr Bean's shit out) makes for a pretty decent place for a prolonged snog. 

***

'I just want to stay here forever.'

'No, you don't.'

With deliberate slowness, Viggo pushes his sunglasses into his hair to stare at Eric. Eric stands his ground, partly because he knows he is right, partly because it is hilarious when Viggo argues for the sake of arguing.

'I do', Viggo says and his brows draw together. 'I bet you my socks that it's currently raining back home, whereas here –'

He doesn't finish his sentence but makes a grand gesture, designed to encompass the entire beach. Eric's eyes temporarily linger at a pair of stray dogs who are fucking very enthusiastically next to one of the trashcans. Then he shakes his head.

'Yeah, yeah, I know, also back home, there is Orlando waiting to piss you off, considering that he hasn't been able to do it for the last two weeks, and then there is your very weird relationship with Gerry's herb garden that completely baffles me.'

'There is nothing weird about it. He asked for my advice.'

'Pretty sure that he didn't think that you'd try talking the parsley into compliance.'

'I was only doing that because you and Gerry were lost in your love of the Stooges.'

Eric crosses his arms over his chest. He is wearing a t-shirt (the one that he won in the fish eating competition on New Year's Eve), and he can't really feel his sunburn any longer. Well, not much anyway.

'There is something wrong with you for not joining in, you know that, right? It makes me cry inside just thinking that you don't love them as much as Gerry and I do.'

Viggo's brows furrow even further for a moment, then he breaks into a cackling laughter. He pulls his sunshades down again and lies back on his towel (technically, it is a towel he stole from Eric's sister's hotel).

'Oh, I do. Especially your reenactments. Up to the point where I get punched in the face.'

'Yeah', Eric agrees sagely. 'That happens quite a bit, I can't deny that. Still, bless Gerry's enthusiasm.'

Viggo hums, and they are quiet for a moment. The dogs have finished their business and now turned to raiding the trashcan. Eric can very much relate to that, sex always leaves him close to starvation. 

'I mean it, though', Viggo says and his voice is as warm as the sun. 'Let's just never leave this beach. It's perfect here.'

Contentment is a rare state of mind with Viggo, and Eric looks at his best mate for a long moment, happily treasuring it. Then he picks up the cheap water pistol he bought this morning and shoots Viggo in the face with it.

***

'Now, here's something that you're gonna like,' Sean says with a chuckle.

Orlando - who has been preparing lessons and basically ignoring Sean's random attempts to let him partake in his random Wikipedia search - doesn't put down his pen or look up from the books on his desk.

'What's that, then?' he asks at least, voice loud enough to easily carry to the couch.

Sean puts his feet up on the coffee table and clears his throat, and Orlando knows that his reading glasses are perched on his nose because Sean's phone is tiny and he is old.

'In some countries they celebrate Epiphany with what I reckon is a variation of the whole Halloween shenanigans.'

'Where? In imaginary-fairy-world?'

'Austria for instance. Where is imaginary-fairy-world, Orlando?'

'Your brain?' Orlando shrugs and crosses out the entire section he wrote last. It's too late in the evening for Hume.

'What do they do in Australia?'

'Austria, mate', Sean corrects him. 'Australia, I have no idea about them. Kangaroo racing on surfboards?'

'I dare you to say that to Eric once he is back.'

'Maybe I will. You want to hear about Austria's Epiphany customs now?'

'I'm on the edge of my seat', Orlando says and even though he couldn't sound any more bored, he now looks over to where Sean is slouched on his couch. 'Halloween?'

'Pretty much', Sean confirms, 'with a very limited range of costume choice for your trick or treating. And you don't get to threaten stingy people to egg their houses either.'

'What's the point, then?'

Sean looks at him from over the rims of his specs and smiles.

'Oh, it gets better. So, you dress up as one of the three wise men -'

'You what?'

'And you do some last minute door to door carol singing.'

Orlando shakes his head.

'There are so many things wrong with this, I don't even know where to start. Why would the three wise men - and I think calling them wise is profoundly idiotic in the first place, considering their stupid star-following shtick - still be running around on the 6th of January? How long do they think Mary will hang out in that stable? And what would they been doing, knocking at every door? Asking for the way? In verse? Yeah, I can see that ending in success.'

Orlando could go on for pretty much ever, considering the absurdity of this (like every) religious custom, but Sean's laughter cuts him off. Sean doesn't say anything, he doesn't even look at Orlando any longer, but is instead apparently once more busy trolling Wikipedia for random bullshit to get a rise out of Orlando.

Orlando shakes his head again and flips open his copy of Hume for idiots (not the official title). 

'Yeah, well', he says, highlighting the first couple of words, 'I give you a tenner I you manage to get the kids of your houses to dress up like that and harass Viggo.'

He bites back a smile in response to Sean's booming laughter.

***

Dominic tips the taxi driver when he drops him off in front of JC's gates. To be honest, the man didn't necessarily deserve a tip, considering how he kept complaining about the state of the streets all the way. But Dominic is very good at nodding and humming his agreement without listening to a single word that is being said, so the ride from York Grand Central was pleasant enough from his point of view.

He picks up his suitcase from where the cabbie rather inconsiderately dropped it in a puddle and starts making his way up the drive. Nothing has changed here in the last two weeks of his absence, he notes, the big mountain of rotting leaves is still piled up right in front of the sign reading 'Welcome to Jackson College', like Marsters, the janitor, thinks this is some kind of socio-political comment. He ignores the footpath that the kids - particularly the ones perpetually late - have trodden into the lawn to cut a corner and keeps following the road. 

The wheels of his suitcase make quite a bit of noise on the gravel, and two kids on a sleigh stop their path down the hill to look at him funny. Dominic stares back because between the three of them, he certainly is not the one behaving oddly, considering their sleighing adventures are taking place on a piece of ground that has no snow whatsoever on it. Not that the kids mind; mud works as a sliding agent well enough. They probably are from Viggo's house, which is all the explanation for odd behaviour that Dominic has needed for the last decade and a half.

The loud tooting of a horn makes one of the kids, the lanky one that is trying to stand on his sleigh, lose his balance and topple down the hill. Dominic watches until a batch of shrubbery stops the fallen boy's decend from the hill, then he turns around.

The car that caused the quite amusing incident stops right in front of Dominic. It's a Mercedes that in some distant past might have been white. The whole car, even the windshield is caked in dirt and while the wipers have valiently attempted to do their job, they mostly just succeeded in spreading the filth around equally.

Dominic steps from the middle of the road to the right and the car moves a couple of feet, the window on the driver's side being lowered. Dominic bends down to look inside.

'What happened here?' he asks instead of a hello. 'Did you happen to get caught up in a landslide on the way from Glasgow?'

Gerry (because it is Gerry, no one else Dominic knows would even consider driving a car this dirty) gives him a brilliant smile and toots the horn again. A brief look over the roof reveals, however, that it doesn't have the same effect as the first one. The second kid is not rolling down the hill, but instead still making his way down carefully, possibly to assist his mate who is still fighting with the shrubbery.

'You want a ride?' Gerry asks.

Dominic looks to where the hood of Gerry's Mercedes is pointing which is in the direction of the main houses, only 150 yards or so away.

'I think I can manage,' he says, 'Wouldn't mind the company, though.'

Gerry laughs but as Dominic starts walking again, he keeps the car next to him, the window still turned down. 

'You look relaxed,' he says and with the arm that is casually propped up on the window sill he makes a vague gesture in Dominic's direction.

'I spent the better part of last week with my head over the nearest toilet,' Dominic replies. 

'Got a bit rat-arsed over New Year's, mate?'

He sounds like he can relate. Dominic chuckles but shakes his head.

'Sister's cooking. My theory is she tried to poison me.'

Gerry laughs and swerves, missing one puddle but hitting the next, splattering the lower part of Dom's jeans with muddy water.

'Eh, sorry', he says, putting on a sheepish smile that regularly gets him out of all kinds of situations in JC. 'Good to be back, then, hm?'

'Yes', Dominic agrees as they round the last bend. 'How could one not miss -?'

He doesn't finish his sentence, and Gerry stops his car so abruptly that the brakes protest. Both of the stare at the scenery in front of them, illuminated by the Merc's headlights. The giant Christmas tree that had adorned JC's lobby for the last six weeks is on its way out. Horizontally, it looks even more imposing, even more so, since its tip is pointed directly at Gerry's car, and it is on the move. Dominic tilts his head and now that he is looking for them, he can see bits and pieces of children's bodies in between the branches of the tree - pairs of feet, a head here, an arm waving for balance there. 

'Wow', Gerry says, and when Dominic looks his way, he finds that Gerry is still staring a the spectacle with something like morbid fascination. 'So that's what a funeral procession for a tree looks like.'

He crosses himself, a very earnest expression on his face, as the tree wobbles to the right in order to avoid colliding with the car, and is carried past.

Suddenly, Sean's head sticks out from under a branch, and since he doesn't have a hand free to wave at them, he turns on his best 'open-school-day-impressing-prospective-parents' smile on them.

''llo, lads! Welcome back to Jackson!'

Dominic raises a hand. Gerry hoots.

'Seriously, if we don't get a move on, it'll be fully dark before we reach the bloody fence!', yells someone from the other side of the tree.

'Hiya Orlando!' Gerry hollers through the window. Then he turns his attention back to Dominic. 'Tell me, you're not glad to be back home, man.'

Dominic's sister's cooking is truly atrocious, and he did spend quite bit of time thinking she was trying to kill him. Now, however, he thinks that maybe she was just trying to put him out of his misery. 

***

Eric pulls a face when they step out of Leeds Airport and the Yorkshire weather fires machine gun sleet at them. He doesn't say anything though, but hurries alongside Viggo, their luggage hastily slung over their shoulders, so they'll catch the bus to Leeds Central Station. The bus driver takes their money, calls Eric 'ducky' and waves them through, and Eric slumps down on the seat next to Viggo in the back, his holdall hugged to his chest.

'Remember when you said you didn't want to leave the beach?' he says when the bus starts moving and instantly gets honked at. 'I bow to your infinite wisdom. What the fuck are we doing here?'

Viggo looks at him, his woolen hat crooked on his head, and traces of the very average curry they had on the last plane still colouring his lips.

'We live here', he then says.

As far as responses to philosophical questions about the meaning of life go, this is pretty disappointing.

'Yeah, I know that, you drongo', Eric replies and hugs his bag a little tighter. Not a good idea, given that the sleet, that hit it, has melted and is now soaking through his jumper. 'But why don't we live on the beach?'

Viggo turns to look out the window for a moment. The view is obscured by raindrops and the early darkness outside, the lighs of passing cars more like an depressing abstract painting than a landscape picture worth looking at.

'Well, for one, you'd get sunburned on a regular basis', Viggo finally says. 'Also, I think if we had to compete for food with those wild dogs, we'd get rabies pretty quickly.'

'Thought you already had rabies', Eric replies, a corner of his mouth quirking up involuntarily.

Viggo nods sagely.

'There is that, yes.'

The bus halts again, and a handful of teenagers push inside, making enough noise for a group thrice their size and carrying with them a thick cloud of the kind of cheap perfume that only boys aged 16 to 18 ever think of buying. The tallest one pulls the smallest into a headlock and ruffles his hair violently. Once released, the small one retaliates by kicking the tall one in the ass, giving him the convenient push he needed to land in one of the free benches.

'We could also try our hands at being animal wranglers', Viggo says, his eyes still following the boys' antics. 'Doesn't make that big a difference from teaching, if you think about it. I got bitten by a second former once.'

'Is that where you got rabies from?'

The tall one in the group of boys throws an insult at a the one with so many spots, he looks like fire ants are attacking his face. Ant-face responds by spitting at the tall one.

'I'm not sure we make that big a difference, in the long haul', Eric says, partly because spitting, that's where he draws the line, partly because the sleet has reached his nipples.

'Yeah, I know', Viggo replies. 'You always say that.'

Eric turns to him, ignoring the oncoming storm of enraged puberty two rows ahead in favour of looking at Viggo again.

'I do.'

Viggo hums in agreement.

'Every time we return to Jackson, you do this', he confirms. 'And I always think that it's funny, you know, 'cause the moment we are back home, you can't remember any of it. Like stepping over the threshold the school wipes your memory, just so you're prepared to listen to another year of my whining without going insane.' He gives Eric a smile, rare in its kindness. 'It's been like that for twenty years, and I sure as fuck hope it's gonna be like that for the next twenty as well.'

He turns to look out the window again, although the scenery hasn't changed and Eric's baffled expression should be more entertaining to look at, really. But Viggo stares into the night, the boys started to play a game of impromptu insult Scrabble without a board, and Eric just sits there, squeezed onto the back row of the bus from Leeds Airport to Leeds Central Station, his nipples cold, and his mind playing a kind of flashback-flashforward (years blend together, and it's really hard to tell whether something is a memory or a premonition sometimes) of random snippets – explaining the basics of geometry for the nth time, the joy of successfully pranking Sean, fish fingers on Wednesdays, taped cricket, statistics, algebra, probability, planning classic-comedy-movie-nights with Gerry, getting Orlando piss poor drunk in the pub, class trips to London and Whitby, grading papers till the early hours, and Viggo, Viggo, always Viggo.

'Yeah, all right', he says quietly. 

The insult match in front of them gets a bit out of hand and spotty-face falls out of his seat in the process. Viggo's cold hand pats his knee and stays there until they reach Leeds Central Station.

***

As far as first days back go, this one hasn't started half bad if anyone asks Orlando. Not only did he get a good nights sleep with dreams of the kind you don't discuss over breakfast due to overly expressive content and overly impressionable children within earshot. Also, Eric and Viggo returned so late last night that it made for an amusing breakfast: Eric is, when tired, and even more so when jet-lagged, the most gullible person on the planet. So Karl is able to convince him that he spent his New Year's Eve in a threesome with two Russian models dressed up as WOW characters. That of course leads to a complete nerd-fest with Karl and Sean as the only participants who very nearly execute a third former from Viggo's house who happens to walk past and dares to comment on – to be honest, Orlando has no idea what he commented on since Sean's and Karl's World of Warcraft obsession is exactly the opposite of interesting. But he can't deny his own amusement when Sean, gentlest of gentle souls (and by that Orlando usually means 'sucker') tells the third former to do one in no uncertain terms, and Karl actually throws a bread roll after him. Being a P.E. Teacher, he has very good aim and hits the kid right in the head.

So, Orlando's day starts out pretty well and continues to be like that during the first staff meeting in the staff room right before lessons begin. McKellen seems to be still slightly inebriated from New Years because in his welcome back speech he quotes Bram Stoker. That leads to Gerry coming up with theories about Christopher having been bitten by Dracula somewhere in the late 70s and being a vampire ever since. His intended audience, West, doesn't visibly react at all (no news there; if anyone asked Orlando, Dom West has had a massive stroke sometime in the late 70s and has since then been unable to move a single muscle on his face). However, Gerry as per usual doesn't really get the concept of an indoor-voices or (God forbid) whispering, so his theory carries; not as far as to reach McKellen or Dracula's love child, mind, but Dom hears them and spends the rest of the meeting desperately trying not to dissolve into giggles or make blood sucking noises.

Then Orlando walks into his classroom and sees what is standing on his desk. It's a cactus, that much isn't a surprise. It is, in fact, the very same cactus that Sean got him as a welcome present back in 2003 and that has moved back and forth from Sean's to Orlando's and back to Sean's classroom ever since. However, Sean took the liberty to repot the cactus once more, and that it is now standing in the middle of his desk, putting down its roots in a [decapitated doll's head](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/65/0b/8c/650b8c23c02a8cc304b35ee66f6f8b38.jpg). Orlando still stares at it when the first kids arrive – Mo and Liv.

'Hiya Mr. Bloom, happy New – wow, that is proper sick!'

'Oi, Mr. Bloom, are you _smiling_? Wow, didn't know you could do that.'

***

'But I'm telling you, this is pretty much solid proof.'

'It's not, Gerry. It's pretty much the opposite of solid proof. It's utter nonsense.'

'Only because you don't listen to me properly, mate. It's dead cert. If you just _look_ at Karl –'

'I'll tell you something certain. If you don't stop pointing at Karl, he will abandon rugby practice and come over here to smack you.'

'Nah, he wouldn't.'

'Yeah, he would.'

'Nah, West. He'll come over and politely enquire what we're talking about that involves him like a civilized person. Are you casting doubt on the assumption that Karl is a civilized person?'

'He appointed a Rottweiler called 'Boris' as his assistant trainer.'

'Which is exactly my point. And I'd explain my reasoning to him –'

'And _then_ he'd smack you.'

'Why would he smack me if he can just bite me, huh?'

'For the last time, Gerry, Karl is not a bloody vampire!'

'Hah, but see, that's where you're wrong. He just _wants_ you to think that, so when you're not paying attention, he'll –'

'Will you stop flapping your arms about, for heaven's sake? You nearly blinded me with your cigarette!'

'Oh, aye, sorry about that.'

'Let's just assume for a second that Karl _is_ a vampire, sired by Christopher – and I am not saying that there is even the tiniest possibility of that being the case –'

'I agree, the mental image of Christopher sucking on Karl's neck is a bit... eurgh.'

'Well said, mate. But let's just assume that you're onto something there and not just being... you –'

'Oi! If you don't watch it, you numpty, I'll be the one skelping _you_.'

'Yeah, yeah. So, if Karl is a vampire, then why can he walk around in the sun without turning to dust? - Speaking of, can I have another light?'

'You shouldn't smoke so much, mate.'

'Pot, kettle, Gerry.'

'There ya go. And it's dead obvious, isn't it. This is Yorkshire, the weather here is pure Baltic. There is pretty much no direct sunlight. Hah.'

'Afternoon, lads.'

'Hiya, Sean.'

'Afternoon, Sean.'

'Sean?'

'Aye, Gerry?'

'You're mates with Karl, aren't ya?'

'For heaven's sake...'

'Aye, I reckon I am. Why?'

'Oh, nothing. West and I were just wondering –.'

'Leave me out of this. _Gerry_ was just wondering –'

'Is Karl a vampire?'

'You what?'

'Yes, Sean, Gerry wants to know whether your friend Karl can transform into a bat and drinks blood for fun. And yes, this is what I have to deal every day.'

'It IS the most logical explanation!'

'Someone being a vampire is _never_ the most logical explanation, Gerry.'

'I reckon I'm gonna agree with Dominic there, mate, sorry.'

'But will you two just – '

'Gerry! Goddamnit, stop waving your fucking cigarette around like that!'

'Sorry, Dom. Anyroad, will you just look at the evidence?'

'All I can see is Karl and Boris at rugby practice, mate.'

'Aye, but Sean, is he or isn't he dressed just like the Prince of Darkness?'

'If the Prince of Darkness were a chav shopping at – Jesus, is that actually a Nickelson jacket he is wearing?'

'Shut it, West, I'm trying to make a point here.'

'Are you really, mate?'

'Et tu, Sean?'

'What Gerry is trying to say, in a nutshell, is that Karl has to be a vampire because of Boris.'

'I don't follow.'

'Trust me, you're not the only one.'

'Gerry?'

'Dom makes it sound stupid.'

'Because it is stupid.'

'Oh really? How else do you explain that Christopher not only allowed Boris onto school grounds but also allowed Karl to officially appoint him assistant trainer? A Rottweiler. There is no other possibly explanation. Christopher is a vampire, Karl is his right hand man and Boris is –'

'Ah, I see.'

'Told you he is completely off his head.'

'No, no, I get it. Boris is a shapeshifter. Makes perfect sense.'

'EXACTLY! HA! I TOLD YOU, WEST!'

'I loathe you both.'

***

After the first three days of school after the winter break, this would be seven recommendations for how to spend your five minute break in order to make it through the rest of the week:

If you asked Sean, he would get you a cup of tea. 

If you asked Orlando, he would scoff at you for your weakness. Then, if he happened to like you, he might lend you his very tattered copy of 'Blandings'. Because everything is better after a bit of Wodehouse.

If you asked Viggo, he might tell you, with a very stern face, to stop bothering him with your first world problems. Alternately, he might spontaneously compose a limerick for you that will have you in stitches.

If you asked Karl, he would most probably slap your shoulder encouragingly (and nearly break it) or give you a bone crushing hug. If you timed your complaint right – that is before ten in the morning – then there would also be a good chance that he would not reek of manly P.E. teacher sweat.

If you asked Harry, he would probably tell you curae canitiem inductunt, which you would maybe have found consoling if you only knew Latin.

If you asked Bernard, he would tell you to pour some whiskey into your tea and give you the key to his locker, filled with DVDs that you can put on for the kids.

If you asked Dom, he would tell you which of Bernard's DVDs include sex scenes that are hilarious to put on if you enjoy teenagers squirming uncomfortably in their seats (and frankly, who doesn't).

It's only two more days till the weekend, after all.

***

 

Eric knows Viggo pretty well, let's face it. Warts and all, figuratively and literally, because Vig has this freckle on his shoulder he gets paranoid about. It's a vice versa thing, too. Once (when Sean said called both of them spinsters and asked where their cats were, they had an afternoon off and Tinder had just come out), Viggo spent an afternoon chatting up random people on the internet, pretending to be Eric while Eric lay on his carpet in pain from laughing too hard.

The thing is, most things that other people (mostly Orlando) call 'Viggo's fucking odd behaviour' don't even register with Eric anymore. So what if Viggo likes bubble baths in semi-darkness that last for hours? It's scientifically proven (well, probably it is; Eric hasn't really checked) that hot baths relax you after long stressful days. And Eric is certainly not judging anyone, let alone Viggo, for their choice of bathing salts, even if personally he prefers lavender over cherry. And so what if Viggo has his own bathtub in his rooms but prefers Eric's? Viggo's bathroom was tiled in the late 70s; being in there is a bit like being trapped in a giant green bottle. And really, so what if he leaves the bathroom door open? For one thing, it saves electricity because the floor light is on anyway, and it's not like Eric hasn't seen Viggo naked before numerous times, is it?

Okay. But still. Sometimes, Eric forgets that his very detailed knowledge of his best mate is not, as such, shared by the rest of the world. So, when he tells his 'maths for dummies' tutoring group that they can meet in his rooms because the heater in the lower Sixth's common room is going mad and it's about 100° in there? He kind of fails to take into account Viggo and his Thursday bathing habit.

After half an hour and about four mugs of tea, Mahdi excuses himself to use the loo, and Eric just continues explaining how to calculate the volume of a cylinder for the 100th time (π h r squared, duh). His valiant effort to teach the kids of Yorkshire how to suss out the contents of their Pringles tube is interrupted by a short screech and Viggo's disgruntled voice, telling Mahdi to bloody turn the light off again.

***

Friday night at the 'Prancing Pony', Orlando is the first to arrive. His phone chirps as he shrugs off his coat, and he shakes his head when he reads the message from Sean – 'be about 45 late. Couch.' Like Sean has ever managed to keep his sofa speeches under an hour. Orlando orders a pint, starts deleting spam messages from his phone, and with half an ear listens to the weird fight about pancakes the elderly people in the corner booth are engaged in.

Harry turns up about ten minutes later, muttering stuff in Latin. Even though Orlando distinctly recalls that he said he would pick Karl up on the way, and even though Orlando enquires about that twice, Harry doesn't say anything about Karl's whereabouts whatsoever. With that, however, Orlando considers his duty to care about the safety of his lesser insane colleagues fulfilled and engages Harry in a conversation about 'The Republic'. Not that Orlando particularly cares about Plato, but he gets Harry's head to be redder than the one of the old pancake enthusiast before he even finishes his first bag of crisps.

Gerry and Eric burst in about the same time the rainstorm outside is reaching its peak, bringing with them loud laughter and a rush of wind. They down two whiskeys before even getting out of their (soaked) jackets and then proceed to do some impromptu sketch. It seems to be about a milkman and a boxer, or a boyband, Orlando isn't sure because Gerry's Glaswegian gets thicker the more he laughs.

Somewhere in the middle of the second act, Karl punches Orlando's shoulder in lieu of a hello and drags him off the bar stool, after ordering them a pint. Orlando kind of wants to know how he got here after all, considering that he has leaves sticking to his hair, but then it is much more important to annihilate Viggo and Dom at darts.

Sean arrives surprisingly, only 37 minutes late. He slumps down at the table occupied by Gerry and Eric, the first thing he does is break the only rule the 'Prancing Pony' has by announcing that in 2017, he didn't even make it two full weeks until having to dry tears of homesickness. Even though the storm outside must have calmed down considerably, he looks more disheveled than Gerry and Eric together. 

Orlando hands off the baton (well, his darts) to Harry and pats Sean's shoulder before sitting down at the table.

'Your shout, mate. You know the rule, no shop talk in the pub.'

Sean chuckles but gets the next round in, and then he and Gerry start slagging off Manchester United even though they knows perfectly well that Liverpool won't stand a chance against them on Sunday. Idiots. Orlando is feeling generous, however, so he doesn't say anything, not even when Viggo joins them and he and Eric start talking cricket. Sean excuses himself for a loo break, and so Gerry makes faces behind Eric's and Viggo's back (honestly, no one should take cricket that seriously) while Orlando tries to keep a straight face.

Suddenly, a bag of Walkers hits him in the chest, his hand reflexively catching it, as his gaze shoots up. Sean grins down at him. 

'Happy birthday, mate.'

With an arched eyebrow, Orlando looks at the crisps he is holding.

'Prawn cocktail? However did I get so lucky?'

Sean laughs and ruffles his hair which earns him delighted laughter from Gerry and Eric and an elbow in the thigh from Orlando.

'Be a bit more grateful, or I'll pay Dom to sing for you,' Sean says, sitting down again and rubbing his thigh. 'And no one wants that.'

Orlando laughs, shakes his head and rips open his bag of disgusting crisps.

There are worse ways to spend your 40th birthday. 

***

'You're such a weirdo.'

'Shut it, you're not allowed to talk to me like that.'

'Since when?'

'Since it's not your birthday anymore.'

'Really, Sean? Since when has that stopped me.'

'It hasn't since 1989, but I'm not giving up hope yet.'

'Which brings me right back to my original observation. You're a weirdo.'

Sean gives Orlando his stern look over the table separating them, and that might have worked if this was the late 80s or something close to it and Orlando wasn't really hung over besides that. As it is, he just rolls his eyes, leans back in his seat and closes his eyes.

'Weirdo.'

Sean does his own version of the eyeroll but lets it go. Instead he picks up his paper cup of tea and looks out the window. The Yorkshire landscape rushes past, misty and rainy and grey, and the steady rattling has that kind of soothing effect Sean associated with trains ever since he was a kid. 

'Seriously though', Orlando asks, jerking Sean out of his thoughts without even opening his eyes.

'I thought you'd fallen asleep', Sean says.

Orlando opens one eye to glare at him. While Sean wasn't paying attention, a woman sat down next to him, her face hidden behind today's 'Guardian'.

'You can't blame me for being cautious', Orlando says. 'Not after last year.'

'Last year wasn't my fault. _You_ were the one suggesting we'd search for a strip club. In Manchester.'

Orlando grunts and closes his eye again.

'Well, _you_ chose Manchester as a birthday venue, which is fucking weird all on its own, really. So, _you_ should have considered the possibility that we'd run into Bernard and Marianne there.'

Sean pulls a face at the memory and when he looks over at Orlando, he sees him crinkling his nose as well.

'I reckon I give you that. It was a bit weird.'

Orlando's face evens out again, but he still seems to be unable to let it go. After a moment, he shakes his head and opens his eyes again.

'Really, I have no problems with sexual kinks my colleagues may or may not have.'

'Please, can we change the topic?'

'Did you know that Descartes had a massive thing for cross-eyed women and Diogenes liked to wank in public?'

The woman sitting next to Orlando glances up from her 'Guardian' and gives Orlando one of these looks people who don't know Orlando usually give him. Orlando (as per usual) completely ignores it.

'I did', Sean says with a nod. 'I did know that because for some reason you like to bring that up.'

Orlando nods as well.

'So, I wouldn't judge if Bernie and Marianne used a Mancunian Strip Joint to spice up their love life.'

The woman (blond, in her late 40s, great cheekbones) now looks at Sean, like Sean was responsible for this or for Orlando in general. Sean gives her a smile and a wink, and here is another thing he loves about trains; women who ride them usually are pretty open to his charms. She smiles at him, and Christ, she has perfect teeth.

'But honestly', Orlando continues and the nose crinkle is back, 'karaoke night in a place called 'Obsessions'? That's just deranged.'

'And I repeat: _You_ picked that spot.'

Orlando makes another face, the one that looks like he just bit on a stick of dynamite, the one that announces he might admit that he is in the wrong.

'It _was_ close to the Industrial Museum', he says, then adds, 'which you picked.'

Sean takes a moment off from silently flirting with the woman across in order to try his stern look on Orlando again.

'If you don't drop it, I'm gonna kick you out in Burton-upon-Trent.'

Orlando narrows his eyes and is silent for a moment, like he is actually considering it. Then however, his frown deepens even more.

'Are we going to Birmingham?' he asks incredulously.

And Sean has to give it to him, he sounds honestly surprised. They have been doing this for ages, these trips on both their birthdays. And even though the deal is that the other one organizes something and the birthday boy isn't allowed to ask questions or even look at road signs or listen to announcements on platforms, Sean usually cheats and Orlando (in an uncharacteristic show of restraint) usually pretends he doesn't notice. 

Meanwhile, Orlando is still staring at Sean intensely.

'Birmingham, mate?' he asks with quite a lot of disdain; maybe a little too much considering he is probably insulting half the other travellers' hometown.''Are we going to the Coffin Museum?'

Now it's Sean's turn to look baffled.

'There is a coffin museum?'

'There certainly is', says the woman with the nice smile. 'It's located in an old factory that made everything associated with coffins apart from the coffins themselves, from the handles to the shrouds.'

She smiles at Sean again, and Orlando for once doesn't tell her that it's rude to interrupt other people's conversations. Instead he gives Sean one of his especially smug looks.

'Told you. Well, considering we're on this train for at least 90 more minutes then, I'm gonna get me a cup of coffee. - Excuse me, any chance –?' He turns towards the woman, clearly intending to get up. She gets out of her seat to let him past. He turns one of his less lethal smiles on her and at the same time gestures at Sean. 'Cheers. And hiya. This, by the way, is my mate Sean. He's a bit shit at planning birthday surprises, but other than that he's a pretty great bloke.' 

With that, he turns around, straightening the button row of his cardigan as he walks off.

Sean looks after him for a second, shaking his head. Then he looks back at the woman.

'I'm sorry about that. He was raised by wolves.'

The woman, for some reason, still smiles and sits down once more.

'So, you're not going to the Coffin Museum?' she asks.

Sean chuckles and picks up his cup again.

'Nope. The [motorcycle museum](http://www.nationalmotorcyclemuseum.co.uk/). We're both enthusiasts.'

Her smile grows even broader and she scoots over to Orlando's spot, exactly opposite of Sean.

'I own a [1972 Norton Commando](http://www.classic-british-motorcycles.com/images/72Nor-ComLR-L.jpg). I'm Christie.'

Sean _loves_ taking the train.

***

Gerry has a lot of mates, okay. He likes meeting new people, people like telling him things and he likes listening (no matter that Monaghan says he never shuts up. He is one to talk.). So, technically speaking he has a flock of people dragging him to do stuff anyway, particularly when it comes to football and music.

Which is why it should be a bit of a mystery to him that he and West are mates. Because West is hilarious and quick-witted and whatnot, but he has turned alienating people into an art form (in comparison, Orlando is head of the cheerleading committee) and fuck, he is so silently judgemental Gerry should not like him.

And yet for some reason here he is, at West's alternately listening to Mahler and West's very odd declaration of love to the cello. As pre-game celebrations go, this is a wee bit on the odd side. But Gerry also knows that West will shout at the telly in the pub even louder than Gerry, even though he is not rooting for Liverpool or ManU.

Gerry doesn't know a lot about West's private life. For all Gerry knows he could have a wife and four kids or work for MI6, he is that good at keeping secrets. But as West walks next to him, still humming Mahler and wearing his Wednesday scarf around his neck, Gerry thinks that he knows him well enough, doesn't he. 

***

West sits down on the chair right of Orlando's. Orlando, who barely tolerates Sean and his bloody awful mess crowding him from the left, looks up from his work sheets. They have a fifteen minuteS break, and West spends the first two minutes of it silent. He eats his strawberry yogurt and stares at Orlando. In that way where he doesn't blink and after ten seconds or so you can't help but feel that he is thinking about how to blow stuff up.

'How was your weekend?' Orlando asks because it's what polite people do instead of asking 'what the fuck do you want' or 'seriously, I'll be pissed if you nuke any of my stuff'.

West gives him a one shouldered shrug. 

'All right, thank you for asking.'

He doesn't return the question, of course he doesn't because he is West. Not like Orlando would have said anything but 'same here, mate'. He did have a fantastic weekend actually, because the Motorcycle Museum was fucking brilliant and what with Sean abandoning him on Saturday evening in favour of chasing tail, Orlando called Katy to join them in Birmingham, and that was brilliant as well (at least until 2 a.m. which was when Sean decided to return to their shared hotel room, drunk enough to think it a perfectly fine idea to fall asleep on the couch while Orlando and Katy were doing a little bit of a late celebration of Orlando's birthday in the bed).

Anyway, Orlando wouldn't have shared any of that information because he isn't sure what West would do with it anyway, and he is a sensible person and would rather be safe than sorry.

So instead he just looks down at his lesson plan again and asks, 'Anything I can do for you?' 

West lowers his spoon. 

'I have a proposition. If you're not busy.'

Orlando really isn't, considering that this lesson about Machiavelli is one he could teach in his sleep anyway. 

'No, no, go ahead.'

'It involves a spot of extra-departmental counterintelligence and possibly sabotage.'

Orlando arches his eyebrows.

'Yeah?'

Instead of answering, West redirects his laser beam stare of potential death away from Orlando and to his regular spot in the other corner of the staff room. Gerry sits there, as per usual taking up space for five people (sometimes, Johnny has to sit on the window sill because of that. Okay, it might also be because he is Johnny, crazy, and smoking out the window even though it's forbidden). Next to him, in West's usual spot, there is Dom. Gerry is waving his arms all over the place like a windmill in a hurricane, and Dom is staring at him like a love-struck Don Quixote (and thank you, Orlando knows that the simile is off; Dom is more the Sancho Panza to Gerry's demented Don; but that wouldn't account for the waving, would it?).

'Yeah', Orlando says, as a way of acknowledging the situation. 'So?'

'So, Gerry and your little enabling soulmate there', West says, and Orlando has got to give it to him, he kinda continues being impressed by the effortless off-handed way West insults people.

'Yeah?' Orlando prompts, when West concentrates on death-staring and eating yogurt instead of talking for a moment.

'As it happens, the heads the geography and the biology departments', West says, using his spoon to indicate Dom and Gerry, 'decided that they should be in charge of the next field trip for the teaching staff.'

West pauses there, allowing the enormity of that information to unfold.

'Yeah?' Orlando says for a fourth time. He can hear the apprehension in his own voice.

'I don't know about you', West says, 'but I am not very particular to spending a Saturday, or in fact any other weekday, playing hide and seek at a Nuclear Waste facility.'

Orlando opens his mouth, then closes it again. He frowns, but when West doesn't crack a smile or otherwise indicate that he is pulling Orlando's leg, Orlando just repeats the mouth-opening-and-closing thing again.

West nods and dips his spoon back into his yogurt.

'Yeah.'

***

'In all honesty', Bernard says instead of a hello when Sean opens his door. 'I am quite certain that the staff is going more and more insane.'

Sean waves him inside and they have a brief wordless fight over the bottle of Bordeaux that Bernard brought but won't be parted with.

'I reckon it's a matter of perspective', Sean says, not entirely disagreeing, as he finally pulls the bottle from Bernard's hand. 'However, it might just be your sanity disintegrating. One person's craziness is another one's reality, hm.'

Bernard clucks his tongue, weaves his head from side to side, but then shakes it. 

'Don't quote Tim Burton at me, or I won't take you seriously anymore either.'

'It's because you're a toffee-nosed snob', Sean yells from the kitchen just as the cork of the wine pops.

'Self-complacency is pleasure accompanied by the idea of oneself as cause', Bernard yells back.

Sean's laugh is loud enough to carry much further than just the distance from the kitchen to the living room where Bernard sat down at the oak table. Bernard drops the papers he brought with him onto a crooked pile of what seems to be work sheets from circa 1998 and waits for Sean to emerge from the home of the corkscrew before he speaks again.

'But speaking of cause and effect and, in fact, questionable sanity', he then says and greets the large glass of wine Sean hands him with an even larger smile, 'you, my friend, might want to have a chat with your surrogate son.'

Sean does a bit of character typical clean up by shifting the biggest piles of papers onto one of the other chairs before putting the glass down and sitting down next to Bernard.

'If you mean Orlando by that, may I remind you that he is not my surrogate son. The idea alone is highly disturbing and makes me question _your_ grasp on reality.'

'And yet he is the first one you thought of.'

'And that has nothing to do with us having had this conversation about a thousand times already, of course.'

'In any case, I saw Orlando, who is in no way related to you, neither biologically nor spiritually, talk to Dominic West this morning. And I thought I should tell you about it, the same way I am pretty certain that Churchill would have appreciated a brief heads up of the private talks of a certain German and a certain Russian dictator in 1939.'

Sean settled for a longer speech from Bernard (since that is Bernard's usual way of conversing) picked up his wine and sipped from it, which is unfortunate since he now nearly chokes on a good drop of Bordeaux.

Bernard very generously slaps him heartily on the back whilst continuing with his summary of the day.

'I am only saying this because they either plan on taking over the school by threatening a nuclear attack – and Sean, my friend, we both know that West is doing unsavoury things in his laboratory and I wouldn't put it past him to have put together a small nuclear missile in his spare time – or they are thinking of killing Dom. The latter, I have to say, would grieve me quite a bit more than the former, because then I'd have to find another partner to go on field trips with me, and I am not sure anyone can measure up to my standards.'

Sean has stopped accidentally suffocating on wine and wipes a tear from his eyes while nodding.

'Naturally. Dom must've set the bar unnaturally high. Incidentally, Orlando tells me he has a very severe medical condition that causes him to break wind a lot when in your company?'

Bernard smiles beatifically at the world in general and Sean in particular.

'Marvelous trait, I can tell you that much. No way to disperse pupils faster than this.'

'Well', Sean says with a nod and some gravitas in his voice completely wasted on the occasion, 'if I had any influence on Orlando whatsoever, I would certainly try to talk him out of whatever world domination he and Mr West are hatching. As it is, I haven't, so I won't. Anything else?'

Bernard looks at him thoughtfully for a moment, highlighting said thoughtfulness by tapping his index finger to his chin. Then he puts down his glass and picks up his previously temporarily abandoned piece of paper.

'Yes, yes. The real reason why I came over – and what brought the whole issue of sanity up, really – is that the new drama workshop starts tomorrow. And as you might remember from the last staff meeting, I have the pleasure of co-teaching this with Johnny.'

'Oh, I remember', Sean replies with a nod and looks like he is about to burst out laughing yet again. 'Both of you were very enthusiastic about it. About as enthusiastic as –'

'As Katherina at the proposed marriage to Petruchio, yes', Bernard confirms with a nod. 'But as said Shrew, I am not too proud to abandon all sanity, principle or in fact sensible character development and shall jump into bed with Johnny with a smile on my face.'

'Congratulations, then, I reckon. Make sure you'll reserve some seats for me, then.'

Bernard makes a dismissive gesture as if that much was a given anyway and uses the motion to thrust his piece of paper against Sean's chest.

'Now, I have a list of pupils here who showed interested in theatre, and I'd like your expert opinion on them.'

Sean briefly scans the names on the list while drinking some more of the wine.

'Yeah, I know about half of them', and five of them are from my house, he then concludes. 'But I'm not sure whether I can say anything about their acting talents, I'm afraid.'

Bernard laughs, refills his own glass that miraculously is empty already, and shakes his head.

'Oh, I don't give a flying fuck about their acting talent', he says. 'What I'd like from you is a semi-professional diagnosis re: their mental state. Someone in that auditorium has to be in possession of the majority of their marbles, don't they?'

***

'Fancy meeting you here, mate. So, that's where you two sneak of to on a regular basis, is it?'

Eric turns his head when a hand lands on his shoulder, though he doesn't stop chewing on the nail on his thumb. Gerry gives him his broadest smile.

'Gotta say, I'm a wee bit disappointed', he continues. 'This whole get up, I don't think it lives up to the gossip about you two.'

Thankfully, Eric only needs the fingers of one hand to nervous-torture with his teeth, so he has the other one free to flip Gerry the bird.

'If you're expecting a reply, you've gotta wait six more minutes till it's over.'

Now it's Gerry's turn to swing around, but he isn't the least bit surprised to find Viggo standing there.

'By the looks of it, yours is pretty desperate for it as well.'

Gerry ignores the comment and Viggo's significant nod in favour of pointing at the two cups Viggo is holding.

'Coffee, mate? Now that's just sad, isn't it? I mean – wait, is that vanilla I'm smelling?'

Viggo raises one of the cups only just and nods. Gerry looks thoughtful for a moment, but then shakes his head again.

'Nah, I stand by it. Coffee is just wrong for this whole full body sensual experience thing. Gotta be wine or summat.'

Viggo's lips curve into a smile before he lifts the non-vanilla coffee to it. Eric pulls his maltreated thumb from his mouth, however.

'Like I'd ever drink and drive, you drongo.'

There is enough hurt pride in his voice to make Gerry hold up his hands in surrender and for Viggo to snicker. Eric takes the cup that Viggo pushes into his hand and sips while his hawk's gaze still is fixed on the same spot as before.

'I mean it, though', Viggo says and nudges Gerry with his elbow. 'That thing is just filthy.'

Gerry turns around to where his Merc is still parked next to the petrol pumps. He has to admit, there is a bit of a mud situation going on there. It looks kind of like his younger sister did when she'd tried out their mum's Make Up for the first time and opted for 'the more the better'. 

'It's a protective layer,' he says and if he was standing within reaching distance, he'd pat the roof of his car fondly.

'Protective against what', Eric asks. 'More mud?'

Gerry raises his brows at Viggo in response to the seriousness of Eric's tone of voice, and Viggo shrugs.

'Don't mind him. This stresses him out.'

'Well, of course it does!' Eric drags his eyes away from where they have anxiously stared at the entrance of the automated car wash in order to glare at Viggo. 'What if the stupid thing scratches my baby, huh?'

Instinctively, Gerry takes a step back from the crazy, while Viggo (of course) does the opposite. 

'Nothing will happen to the Falcon, Eric.'

'But what if it does, though?' Eric replies and fuck, Gerry is impressed by the amount of anguish on his face. Well, 'impressed' might not be the right word. Rather something between 'mildly freaked out' and 'properly amused', but whatever.

Positioning himself right next to his mental petrol head of a best mate, Viggo rests his lower arm reassuringly on Eric's shoulder.

'Eric', he says in that way you talk to spooked animals who might just trample you to death if you don't calm them down. 'This is why we came here, remember? This is s a Touchless Wash controlled by computer technology, 100% scratch free and unique in the UK. The beauty of the Touchless Wash is that it can wash the vast majority of cars. You can go through with a roof rack and is ideal for 4x4s, cabriolets and most types of spaceships. Just check the height restriction signage.'

Viggo makes a gesture to the car wash and its giant 'Touchless Wash' banner.

Eric makes a small sound.

Gerry doesn't ask. Instead he backs away slowly.

Well, if this is what floats their boat, who is he to judge? He decides that he has more important things to do than worry about Eric's obsession with his oldtimer or Viggo's odd love declarations that happen to sound exactly like [the car wash's official webpage text:](http://www.innerspacestations.com/car-wash-york.php#prettyPhoto) For one thing, he never knew that you could get Vanilla flavoured coffee at a Jet petrol station. He is definitely gonna get himself one of those now.

***

The following conversation takes place during lunch time in the cafeteria at the teachers table. For those keeping record, it is January, 19th, a rather cold Thursday, and lasagna has been served (the pupils' tables are accordingly messy). Present teaching staff members are Gerry, Dom, Orlando, Viggo, and Dominic himself. 

However, it is noteworthy to point out that there has been no conversation before Gerry and Dom arrived half a minute ago. Orlando and Viggo had a fight about Feuerbach (again) around ten in the morning, are temporarily no longer on speaking terms and currently demonstrate that by sitting across from each other without acknowledging the others' presence whilst reading Sean's 'Guardian' (Orlando) / a book containing the collected poems of some obscure Latin American writer (Viggo).

Technically, Dominic is also present, but for the record he would like to point out that he is only still sitting at the table precisely because of the passive-aggressive silence that has been going on before. Also, the lasagna isn't half bad. 

But then Gerry elbows him in the side, almost causing him to spill some of his mineral water.

'Dom, mate, you really need to back me up here.'

Dominic doesn't. Instead he carefully puts his glass down and avoids eye contact in favour of inspecting the remains of his lunch.

'Yeah, busted, Gerry. Not even your best mate is on your side. Epic fail, man.'

Dominic isn't Gerry's best mate. He is certain of that. Well, fairly certain anyway. He pushes a slightly charred lonely noodle to the side of his plate, feeling Gerry's eyes on him.

'You don't know what you're talking about, Monaghan. I don't care if I'm the only person left on the planet, thinking that.'

'Trust me, you won't be. You'll be killed pretty much at the beginning of it all.'

'I won't.'

'You will.'

'Fuck you.'

'Fuck you.'

If this was a conversation between pupils, at this point Dominic would feel the need to tell them to mind their language. Or rather, he wouldn't, because Orlando would've slapped both of them already. As it is, Orlando is immersed in an article about Boris Johnson which means that Dominic needs to vacate this table in the next five minutes before the Bolshevist preaching starts. 

Then Dominic makes the mistake of glancing up from his plate. Dom and Gerry naturally take that as an invitation to make him the umpire in their daily bit of metaphorical bullshit table tennis, and they even feel the need to fill him in on the specifics. Oh joy.

'See, mate, Monaghan and I were talking about the apocalypse.'

'Which is totally part of the syllabus.'

Dominic highly doubts that.

'And anyway,' Gerry continues. 'We are in absolute agreement that a zombie apocalypse is complete nonsense. At least in a post nuclear war scenario.'

'Right there with you, man. It makes no sense whatsoever.'

They both look at Dominic expectantly. Dominic doesn't say anything because there _is_ nothing to say.

'However', Gerry says, and Dominic knows _that_ tone of voice, 'a _vampire_ apocalypse, now that is absolutely happening.'

'Absolutely', Dom agrees. 'Nuclear dust clouds blocking out sunlight? Perfect breeding ground for vampires. And they don't need to worry about genetic mutations either, since their version of procreation -'

'- is of the bitey kind. And we are in agreement that the first thing to do in case of, you know, the end of the world and all that is to get Christopher and Karl to bite us all.'

That gets him a sideways glance from Viggo who seems to be blissfully ignorant of Gerry's tinfoil hat theory of the month. 

'So we're all vampires, so that's the whole radiation issue sorted,' Gerry continues. 'But then of course there is the issue of food and territories and that's where – '

'Gerry is being completely unreasonable.'

'I'm not.'

'You are.'

' _You_ are unreasonable.'

'I'm not.'

Dominic drinks his last sip of water. He kind of wishes it was hemlock.

'Obviously, I'm gonna set up camp in Glasgow because –'

'Because you're being a patriotic idiot. Anyway, you can have the whole of Scotland, I don't even care, I'm gonna set up shop in the Mediterranean anyway, and I'm taking everyone with me.'

The idea of spending eternity with Dom Monaghan on Myconos is worse than an apocalypse. Gerry tosses a cherry tomato at Dom's head.

'Over my dead body. If we can't agree on a location, we'll have to split up. I'll even give you first pick.'

'Oh, you're so gonna regret that', Dom says smugly and instantly points at the 'Guardian' paper wall on the other side of the table. 'I'll take Orlando as my right hand man, of course. He'll argue anyone into submission.'

Orlando doesn't lower his paper. He does, however, give Dom the finger.

'Your loss, man', Gerry says with a shrug. 'I'll pick West. He knows how to make bombs.'

Dominic does possess enough of a working knowledge to get him an internship in any international terrorist organization. Gerry shouldn't know about it, though.

'Yeah, I'm all right with that', Dom says dismissively. 'I'll pick Karl next. All that sport's gotta be good for fighting.'

'Eric will be with me. He can fix any car we'll find. Hah. _And_ he's good with a cricket bat.'

'So is Viggo.'

At this point, Dominic frowns and that seems to be loud enough for Gerry to take note. Dominic pointedly looks at Dom's first choice, Orlando, who is now making growling noises at his newspaper because there's a picture of a priest in it. Then he looks at Dom's third choice, Viggo, who has pulled out the silver cross that he is wearing around his neck this week and is silently holding it in Orlando's general direction in the familiar self-defense gesture.

As a result, Gerry leans back in his chair and triumphantly crosses his arms behind his head.

'Monaghan, your team is gonna tear itself apart before you even reached the Med. My clan will rule the world. We will feed on human corpses and mutated sheep and roam the highlands like princes. Right, West?'

At this point, Dominic thinks it prudent to take his tray and remove himself from the table.

***

Cate is the unchallenged queen of betting at Jackson College. It's all about knowing the little things and remembering them at the right moment. Which is why Cate has filed away all kinds of bits and bobs over the last twenty years. Like...

...Orlando knows how to knit. Bernard's wife taught him; though Cate has no idea why.

...Viggo has a thing for necklaces and it's not just crosses but all kinds of good luck charms. And a giant crocodile tooth.

...Bernard's favourite writer is Voltaire which is pretty rebel for an English teacher.

...Christopher prefers highland over lowland whisky.

...Sean has a lorry driving license.

...Sean also spent a night in a cell in 1999. Cate still doesn't know why. It is incredibly vexing.

...Eric talks to his car when he forgets that there are other people in the Falcon with him.

...Eric's pet name for his car is the same one he uses for Viggo when both of them are really drunk.

...previous to his employment as Karl's assistant trainer, Karl's dog was working full time on a scrapyard.

...Dominic West is a freakishly excellent swimmer and rower.

...Gerry is a very enthusiastic ice skater. He is also incredibly shit at it and usually has to be dragged of the ice by a handful of kids he is supposed to be chaperoning.

...Craig got the job at JC teaching German after talking to Christopher about how to silently kill people with a trench knife during the job interview.

...Dom Monaghan is a regular McGyver with a condom. He even manages to make half way decent balloon animals out of them which is only a bit disturbing.

...Orlando may appear to only own clothes in black and grey. That doesn't include his underwear. That is very colorful.

...between them, Eric and Gerry can spontaneously reenact about half the episodes of 'Mr Bean'.

...Dominic West sometimes only leaves his lab when it is well after midnight. Cate thinks that is slightly worrying.

...Viggo and Eric both have the same tattoo. Or had, in 2007; Eric's was non permanent.

...at least four members of staff as well as the janitor are seriously addicted to soaps.

...Orlando is scared of babies and spiders. The latter only when he is inebriated.

...Ian is always willing to ignore the official school policy that betting is frowned upon as long as Cate shares the inside knowledge with him over a cup of tea.

***

NYC, 1/2/2017

Sean,

the USS Intrepid was commissioned in 1943 and decommissioned in 1972 and is featured in three movies, one of which being some silly Disney flick called 'National Treasure'. This means I'm up two points on our scoreboard of stupid facts; and I WILL be checking it when I come back, so don't pretend the postman lost this card again.  
We haven't actually been to the Intrepid because I could care less about war propaganda and Katy lost interest the moment she learned that there weren't any cute sailors around. Also, we keep getting stuck in cabs that never take us where we want to go. Strange place, this.  
Don't forget to not water my cactus.  
Cheers, Orlando

***

Viggo waves to Sean from afar when he passes the football field, and Sean nods in response but doesn't pull his hands out from the warmth his winter jacket's pockets must provide. He turns back to supervising his girls, and Viggo rubs his own mittened hands together for warmth as he continues his way back to the main buildings.

To some, teaching is a vocation. It's the one thing Sean and Viggo have always felt about exactly the same, it's the one thing that let them drift towards one another when they first started at Jackson College. It's still the reason why both of them are so easy to talk into spending Sunday mornings editing school brochures together with Bernie or standing in the rain, watching thirteen year old girls kick a football around in the mud.

When Viggo rounds the corner behind the small patch of oak trees, he sees Eric's Falcon on the car park, still in the same spot. It's a bit surprising; it's Sunday after all and Eric rarely spends a whole day at Jackson College if he doesn't have to. When he decided to move from the village onto school grounds, it had nothing to do with his devotion to the JC and everything with the fact that the rooms that Ian Holm vacated were adjacent to Viggo's. 

Eric is the one (alongside with Karl) who has no qualms laughing tears at one of his kids' misfortunes; whether that may be general clumsiness, brainfailure during exams or any other side effect of being a teenager. And you won't find kids taking up residence on any of Eric's furniture, like they do on Sean's, and Eric's idea of demonstrating support to a heartbroken teenager is either to call Viggo or to offer comfort food and a tissue, which usually happens to be a squished toffee from his jacket pocket and a crumpled napkin from a chippy.

'Don't wanna have to use up all my compassion on teenage drama outside the classroom', is his standard excuse for not getting involved, though Viggo figures Eric partly puts it so bluntly because he knows it'll get a rise out of Orlando whose raison d'etre is re-living puberty second hand, like he was trapped in one of the deeper circles of hell. 

Viggo's phone chirps somewhere in the depths of his coat and he has almost reached the buildings when he finally manages to locate it. It's a text from Eric; a slightly blurry photo of his television screen, showing the current cricket results, and an accompanying message.

'2nd session is about to end; Warner is on FIRE, FOR FUCK'S SAKE COME HOME ALREADY!'

Viggo _should_ print out the revised school brochures and prepare his lessons for tomorrow, and he _should_ see if he can find Janina Marching for a follow-up conversation about her ill-advised gap-year-plan and tell Rashida Smith that she still needs to put in three hours of gardening work for the damage she's caused to the shrubbery.

He should.

'Two minutes', he texts Eric instead as he pulls open the door.

***

When Orlando and Sean enter the staff room (Orlando in the middle of a rant about how much of a cunt Kant is, Sean very focused on peeling the orange he got from Fiona Radford from his second year), they find the room almost deserted. 'Almost', because Karl is there, with his feet on Sean's chair, his arms crossed over his chest (his left hand holding his whistle, ready for use), and his eyes closed. Snoring.

Orlando silently points at Karl's mouth and the bit of drool clinging to its corner, rolls his eyes and makes a bee line for the kitchen.

When he returns (with Sean's P.G. Tips and his black coffee), Sean has used the time wisely by collecting all scarfs and woolen hats he could find (quite a few since Yorkshire continues to rock sub zero temperatures) and draping them over Karl who hasn't moved an inch.

Orlando sips from his tar-like drink of choice, watches Sean trying really hard to not burst into giggles. Then he picks the slightly dusty tin foil star of Bethlehem that Johnny made from Dom's sandwich wrappings, and very gently places it on Karl's head. 

***

Now, Liv doesn't mind going to JC. Yeah, all right, she minds, but not because it's JC but because it's school and who enjoys that is a proper weirdo in her book. Mind, she'd rather be at home, def – even if her older brother is totally useless with the whole legal-guardian lark most days, and Liv really can do without his husband starting every single fucking conversation by asking her whether he should help her with maths. But they both love her no matter what. They are family, right, and the good thing about family is that they are, like, duty-bound to love you no matter how often you fuck up and whatever. Liv is, in all honesty, ace at fucking up. 

Case in point, is today. It's absolutely Mr Bloom's fault. He was the one who went on and on about beer during philosophy this morning. Mr Bloom, he has this thing where he blows his top when he even sees someone wearing a cross around his neck. It's pretty hilarious the first few times, and it's handy when you want to distract him from shit. Just throw in something about God or religion or whatever, and he's like a dumb cat chasing a laser and ramming its head against a wall in the process. 

For some reason he thinks that they are interested in his weird hobby, which is coming up with idiotic non-christian holidays (and he is so making them up; Liv doesn't care that he says he has a book or whatever about that). Anyway, according to Mr Bloom, January, 24th is beer-can-appreciation-day. Something about the invention of the beer can in the 1930s or whatever; Liv wasn't really listening because the moment Mr Bloom put that can of Heinecken on his desk, the plan about a spontaneous booze up distracted her from listening. Beer is a pretty solid choice when you want to get mullered, though not as good as vodka, obv.

Not that she is telling Mr Mortensen that when he looks at her with that expression on his face, like he is constipated, only that it's a sigh he is forcefully trying to hold in, not shit or whatever. For a moment, Liv contemplates whether she might get away with switching on the doe-eyes and acting all innocent. Another reason why being at home beats living in JC, really, because her brother always falls for it. With Mr Bean, there's at least fifty fifty chance; Mr Bloom though? No chance. He is even worse than her maths-loving stepdad. And she's not delusional; no doe-eyes in the world get you out, if Mr Mortensen catches you with a backpack full of Tesco Lager when you try to sneak back inside. However –

'Do you care to enlighten me what this is about?' Mr Mortensen asks when he opened the zipper of her backpack. 

Liv shoves her hands into the pockets of her jacket, shrugs and decides to go all in.

'Well, it's really Mr Bloom's fault, you know', she says.

Mr Mortensen's face switches from professional disappointment to that look Liv's career-criminal uncle sports whenever he can pull a fast one on a business partner.

'Oh, really? What exactly did he say?'

Back home or at JC, it doesn't really make any difference, Liv thinks as she tells Mr Mortensen all about beer can day and how Mr Bloom might be the devil. 

Adults. Such fucking easy marks.

***

'Ahoy?'

'Dominic? Is that you?'

'Yes, of course it is. You dialed my number, Gerry.'

'Why do you answer your phone with – are you on a boat right now?'

'No. Of course not.'

'Ah, I see. You're pretending this is the 19th century and you're Graham Bell. Did you know he was a Scotsman?'

'Everyone knows that.'

'Question springs to mind, though. _Why_ are you pretending to be him?'

'I'm not discussing this with you. It's 1.30 a.m..'

'Did I wake you? Is that why you're answering your phone like –'

'I'm still up. Grading tests.'

'Ah, bummer.'

'Gerry?'

'Yeah, mate?'

'Was there a reason for your call?'

'Oh, aye, course there was. I just woke up from a nightmare.'

'Bummer.'

'Is that all you have to say about it?'

'There, there?'

'Oh, for fuck's sake. Anyway, so, I was in my classroom, right, and I was giving this lesson about safe sex and condoms. Only that someone switched out my vegetables –'

'You use vegetables for sex ed? Please don't tell me you get them from JC's kitchen.'

'Okay, if you want. I'm not telling you I'm taking them from the kitchen, then. Anyroad, the problem wasnae the kitchen staff, they are usually very lovely about it, and sometimes even let me borrow aubergines.'

'I don't know how to respond to that.'

'You're distracting me from my story, West, I mean from my dream. Of course I use aubergines. It gives the kids a proper complex about the size of their penis and if that isn't a way to prevent teen-pregnancies, then I don't know what.'

'Straight out of the national curriculum.'

'I'm having you on, mate. Of course I don't use aubergines or any other vegetables. In reality we don't, I mean. Cause in my dream, I was supposed to, but they'd given me the wrong ones. And have you ever tried pulling a condom over a potato?'

'I can say with uttermost certainty that I haven't.'

'It's a wee bit awkward. Anyway, so I had this potato squished between my knees, trying to get it ready for sex without the potential of STDs, when the door to my lab opens and an Ofsted inspector walks in.'

'I see.'

'Aye. I was a bit embarrassed by it all, and as it turns out, my dream self isn't too good with dealing with stress, so I jumped up and threw the potato away. And it knocked Simon Bankwell unconscious. You know the little kid that looks like a rag doll that someone pumped up with helium? Then I woke up.'

'My condolences.'

'Man, I _hate_ dreaming about Ofsted. At least I was dressed in this one. Once, they had me do a practical demonstration. Of sexual positions, I mean.'

'Hm.'

'That was a wee bit weird. I didn't even get to the actual sex part in that dream because as it turned out, I couldn't find a sex doll in the lab. Have you ever had nightmares about Ofsted?'

'Not really.'

'Hm.'

'I did nearly blow up my lab during an actual inspection, though.'

'You did? How?'

'Dry ice bomb.'

'You what?'

'It's a plastic bottle with dry ice and water. You shut it tightly –'

'Mate, I know what a dry ice bomb is. I've seen Myth Busters. You made that in class? During an Ofsted inspection? You're kidding me!'

'Well, of course I am. It's a _bomb_ , Gerry. A rather primitive one, and really very easy to make, but a bomb nonetheless. I'm not building bombs in class.'

'I've heard different rumours.'

'Rumours spread by you, mostly.'

'That is true, yes. Anyroad, so you don't have nightmares about Ofsted _and_ you're taking the piss?'

'Not really.'

'Seemed like it to me.'

'I was trying to cheer you up, mate. But yeah, sorry. Next time, I'll –'

'Nah, come on, you're all right. I'm just fucking with you.'

'Oh. Okay.'

'Appreciate it, Dom. One question, though.'

'Gerry, I'll hang up if you ask me about Graham Bell again.'

'No, no, I wasnae going to, was I? - But you do know how to make bombs? Not in class, I mean. But in general?'

'C'mon, Gerry. Who doesn't?'

***

January, 26th is Spouse's Day. Teachers at JC know this, mostly because Orlando effectively destroyed Valentine's Day for everyone in 2007 by having his A-Level class do a diorama on saints and the way they died. It ruined February, 14th for everyone. 

Spouse's Day has less to do with chocolates, red roses and heart-shaped whathaveyou and more with showing the special someone in your life (husband, wife, significant other, Siamese twin who shares a heart with you – whichever) that you appreciate them.

Apparently there are a LOT of married people who haven't got a fucking clue as how to properly celebrate the love of their life and share advice on the internet. Now, Viggo would be happy with their usual once-a-month lawn-chair-and-beer evening (it's exactly what it says on the tin, though during the winter months they occasionally switch beer for thermos bottles of mulled wine or something else to warm themselves up under the blankets because they are sitting outside in a camping chair in fucking Yorkshire, all right?). But Eric likes holidays, and he fucking _loves_ internet help sites. One quick search with Google and he is on a website that is called [engagedmarriage.com – Love your marriage, lead your family.](http://www.engagedmarriage.com/74-simple-things-you-can-do-to-brighten-your-spouses-day/) (is it just Eric or does the second half of that slogan work better on a cult than a marriage?), telling you 74 ways to show you care.

 _Take the kids to the park while they are on Spring Break and let her have a nap.  
_ \- Eric does offer to spike Viggo's morning mate with some of the Valium he nicked from Christopher's office and pull the fire alarm during first period. He doesn't, because that's all kinds of illegal (and because Christopher is giving him the stink eye all morning anyway), and also because merely mentioning it makes Viggo snort mate through his nose.

 _My husband is easy. Smile at him and say, “I appreciate you, honey!” makes his day._ \- Eric does do that. Instead of pulling the fire alarm, he does that in the middle of first period instead by interrupting Viggo's second year R.E. class. Viggo nods very seriously and replies 'And I cherish you, babe' which makes the entire class do vomiting noises. It's hilarious.

 _Dinner. Then dishes. She loves that!_ \- Wow. Eric is not touching that one. Just... wow.

 _A three-minute hug._ \- That's a good one, in Eric's opinion. Viggo agrees. Most of their colleagues do not. They have to squeeze past them because Eric choose the middle of the staff room as an opportune hug location.

 _One simple thing I could do to brighten my husband’s day TODAY is locate a copy of Boondock Saints for us to watch!_ \- Eric won't be doing that one. Both he and Viggo get way too emotional over the [throwing-a-toilet-from-the-roof-scene.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GpLTLKbkbU8) Jesus. That is love, man. Pure. Eric just – he can't – he – Viggo saves Eric from having an emotional breakdown whilst waiting in line in the cafeteria by telling dirty jokes in a horrid Irish accent. That probably means their lunch lady from Belfast spat on their fish fingers. Ah well.

 _Wash the dishes…Naked!!!_ \- Yeah, Eric is not doing that one either. For one thing, the heater in Viggo's kitchen is on the fritz and there are frost flowers on the window in the mornings. For another, who does their dishes naked and thinks that that is sexy? Plus, who the fuck does their dishes by hand? Have the people subscribing to engagedmarriage.com never heard of dishwashers? However, Eric does leave a handful of Fairy dishwasher tablets on Viggo's desk before afternoon classes start.

 _Sending him sexy texts to work and keeping him from getting bored in the minutiae of the day._ \- This is definitely Eric's favourite. Not for the apparently obvious reason. 

He and Viggo text throughout the day all the time anyway, so that's not actual a Spouse Day thing. But engagedmarriage links to the most hilarious [video explaining how to sext](http://www.texttheromanceback.com/?hop=driechm) that Eric watches during his free period in the afternoon. He gets a solid ten minute laugh out of it before he sends it to Viggo who replies by calling it the best thing that ever happened to him. 

Then Eric sends Orlando a sext. Orlando responds with mild confusion. But by the time that Viggo shows up at 6.40 p.m. with pizza, Eric is up to 37 messages and Orlando's responding texts are already in angry all caps. So, for the rest of January, 26th they continue sending more or less lewd (and more and more weird) texts. By midnight Eric has three shouty voice mail messages from Orlando, threatening to bloody beat him to death and behead him like fucking Saint Valentine.

Eric _loves_ Spouse's Day.

***

It's breakfast time, and Sean is happily peeling his second egg when Dominic clears his throat and Gerry snickers. Each sound on its own is worrisome enough, but combined? They make Sean automatically look for a clear line to the exits and the closest fire-extinguisher.

However, there is no small fire (they haven't had one of those since the incident with Dominic's birthday cake last October). Gerry is trying to soak up his amusement by stuffing toast into his mouth, but Dominic, noticing Sean's interest, nods to Sean's left, where Orlando sits.

Sean has good good reflexes, thanks to football and the fact that the best way to nip water bomb fights in the bud is catching the damn balloons mid air. So it takes him 0.2 seconds from seeing to grabbing Orlando's arm which is raised mid air, his fist holding a butter knife.

'Christ, Lando!', Sean grunts under his breath and pushes Orlando's arm down onto the table before any of the kids can see.

Orlando turns his glare at him, and Sean is not a religious man, but he has watched 'The Omen' a dozen times and it is like looking at Damien Thorn himself. If Damian Thorn was a 40 year old man with bags under his eyes, he supposes.

Gerry dissolves into giggles. Dominic picks up his plate and leaves the table.

'What is _wrong_ with you today?', Sean asks and attempts to extract the butter knife from Orlando's grasp.

'It's his fucking fault', Orlando hisses in complete seriousness and jerks his arm free from Sean's grasp, even though he lets him have the knife.

'Who are you talking -?' Sean starts but stops when his gaze follows Orlando's across the table.

There is Viggo, cutting apples slices into his cereal and looking far too happy with the world at large. And then, of course, there is Eric. Who is, and there is no other way to say it, performing fellatio on a giant banana whilst making... well, it's probably the Australian version of bedroom eyes, Sean supposes. It's mildly scary.

Sean looks back at Orlando. Orlando, who now picked up his fork in a slightly distressing manner, narrows his eyes even further and mouths 'You are so fucking DEAD' to Eric.

Three third formers make the mistake of looking over to the teachers' table at that very moment. Sean tries his reassuring smile, but even that has its limits. 

***

'Please tell me that this isn't going to be another 2009.'

Sean looks up from the worksheets on his desk that do a pretty good impression of leaves during a thunderstorm. Bernie smiles at him and leans against the desk, turned towards him conspiratorially. Naturally it's only then that a couple of Sean's sixth formers look their way.

'No clue what you mean ', Sean replies, voice low.

Bernie scoffs.

'Please, like you haven't noticed the big grin on Orlando's face all morning.'

Of course Sean has, it's pretty hard to ignore considering its rarity and the fact that it freaks the kids out. 

'So what', Sean replies with a shrug and for the benefit of their nosey underage audience he adds, 'Maybe he got laid.'

Yasmin and Sasha both pull the same face of disgust and turn away. Bernie chuckles and shakes his head.

'No, it's not that. It's not his satisfied smile but the scary one.'

'Don't you think it a tad odd that you labeled his smiles?'

'No, and stop trying to change the subject. I got to be back in my classroom in two minutes, and I'd just like to know whether I need to prepare for an MCA type of situation. Like in 2009.'

Sean frowns a little and shakes his head.

'2009?'

For a second it looks like Bernie contemplates reaching out and slapping him, but then he remembers their surroundings and just rolls his eyes.

'The last time one of Orlando's and Viggo's silly feud escalated. In case you don't remember, I got marooned on the pond's island and Dom ended up in hospital.'

'Where they told him that you can't get a heart attack from laughing too hard. It really wasn't that bad, mate.'

'You say that because you're Switzerland.'

Sean laughs, and Bernard clucks his tongue and looks actually mildly bothered.

And sure, Sean could ease his mind. Not that a repetition of The Feud isn't still an option, not after Eric's continued sexual harassment via text. Orlando has the memory of an elephant and bears a grudge like nobody's business. But that is exactly why Sean was sort of relieved when he overheard Karl talking Orlando into an evening of Halo last night. Karl undoubtedly brought Boris, and Sean knows Orlando well enough. He definitely was in enough of a mood to use Karl's scrapyard trained Rottweiler to scare the living daylights out of disobedient kids during one of his rounds and have a good laugh about it.

Orlando is not a particularly nice person.

But then again, neither is Sean. So, he rubs his chin contemplatively.

'You reckon?' he asks and adopts an expression of growing worry. 'Better avoid the pond then for the foreseeable future, eh, mate? 

***

'Ahoy, mate.'

'Oh, it's you.'

'You could sound a bit less disappointed, West.'

'Sorry, I was just expecting a call from – nevermind.'

'No, no, do tell. Let me take part in your life. Is it MI6? Your wife? Pablo Escobar?'

'Isn't he dead?'

'I reckon.'

'Why on earth would I be expecting a call from him then, Gerry?'

'I don't know! Why I asked, isn't it?'

'Nevermind what I expected. What can I do for you?'

'Tell me who your having secret phone conversations with. Let me take part in your life, mate.'

'My life isn't a soap opera for your entertainment.'

'Now there's a thought, though. If your life _were_ a soap, you reckon you'd be the baddie? The hellraiser? The womanizer? The locksmith?'

'The locksmith? Now, that is random.'

'Not really, considering.'

'Considering what?'

'Actually, mate, I called with a specific question in mind. Do you, by any chance, have any pointers as to how one would go about breaking into their own flat?'

'What would be the point of breaking into my own – did you lock yourself out, Gerry?'

'In a way.'

'What do you mean 'in a way'? I don't think there is any room for misunderstanding there.'

'Well, if you're asking if I misplaced the keys to my flat and if the door is locked, then the answer is 'yes'.'

'See, it's pretty straightforward.'

'However, if you're asking whether I have locked myself _out_ , as in, can't get _into_ my flat, then the answer would be 'no'.'

'Gerry?'

'Yeah, mate?'

'Did you lock yourself in?'

'Yeah, mate.'

'Why?'

'Well –'

'Before you proceed, let me assure you, if your next sentence includes the word 'vampires', I will hang up.'

'Do you think I'm a complete bampot, West? It's the middle of the day, why would I need to protect myself against vampires? Nah, it's not that. Precautionary thing, though, yeah. Remember my rooms are next to Eric's?'

'Ah, okay, I see. It's because of Orlando?'

'Exactly. Now, he might very well be a vam-'

'Gerry, I mean it, I will ring off.'

'What? Yeah, okay. Anyroad. I locked myself in earlier, and now I can't find the keys and now how do I get out? I don't own a rope ladder.'

'Have you tried calling the janitor?'

'What?'

'Marsters. The janitor. Call him.'

'That is a pretty smart idea, West.'

'I live to serve. And it's not like I have anything else to do on a Sunday after-'

'MAAAARSTEEEERS!! OI!! MARSTERS!!'

'For fuck's sake, Gerry!'

'What?'

'What are you doing?'

'Pretty daft question, considering you just suggested it, isn't it. I opened a window and called the –'

'On the phone, for fuck's sake. I meant you should _phone_ him, Gerry.'

'I haven't got his number, do I? Who has the number of –'

'It's on the A4 sheet of paper in that generic frame right next to your door. As it is in _every_ room of the school.'

'Oh.'

'I am pretty certain he will have heard you already, though. Jesus, you've got a loud bellow.'

'Cheers, mate.'

'That wasn't a compliment.'

'Yeah, it was.'

'No, I am positive that – sorry, gotta cut you off now, my other call is coming in and –'

'IS IT PABLO ESCOBAR?'

'Call the janitor, you idiot.'

'What would I do without you?'

'No idea. I gotta go now.'

'Pint later? My shout.'

'If you manage to get out, sure.'

***

It's precisely 9.16 p.m. on Monday morning when Eric's lesson on key stimuli and frilled dragons gets interrupted by the door crashing open.

The next five minutes are the worst of Eric's life.

A woman marches in. She has the body of a stripper (and an according demeanor as well) and wears a sheep hat on her head and New Zealand's flag as a rather skimpy dress. She corners Eric who is too flustered to do anything against it before it is too late. Then she sings the _entire_ version of 'God defend New Zealand' – the English _and_ the Maori version – right into his face.

When she ends, Eric's entire fifth year gives her standing ovations. Eric feels like he is going to be sick any moment now. The evil singing telegram smiles her brightest smile, then gives him a peck on the cheek and whispers into his ear,

'Orlando sends his regards'.

***

Viggo climbs in through Eric's kitchen window, and he is not being very elegant about it. Also he is humming the melody to 'Dawson's Creek' and carrying a picnic basket. Well, a bag from Tesco.

Eric, who should be preparing geometry lessons but really isn't, watches him whilst stirring tomato soup on his stove.

Viggo, who successfully managed the unnecessarily complicated entering process and ends up kind of upside down on the kitchen floor, gives Eric an upside down grin and produces a champagne bottle from his Tesco bag.

'I've decided something', he says solemnly.

Eric knows that tone of voice. He leaves the soup be and crouches down, eyebrows waggling in excitement all on their own.

'Yeah, mate?'

Viggo nods and fluidly sits up to hold out the bottle.

'I'm not down with the whole New Year celebration thing, considering it's just once a year. I propose we do this monthly now.'

Without taking his eyes off Viggo, Eric pulls a corkscrew from a drawer and uses it to point at the bag before reaching for it.

'Please tell me you got fireworks in there, mate.' 

***

On Wednesday, a package gets delivered to the teachers' table when they have lunch. It is for Orlando, and considering the latest developments and the size of the parcel, Dominic decides that it would take him less than a second to dive under the table. He should be relatively safe under the heavy oak if it contains a mid sized bomb from Eric. Orlando (somewhat foolishly) opens it without precautionary measures. Dominic doesn't need to dive. It contains chocolates. Orlando looks mildly puzzled. Dominic supposed they might be poisoned.

On Thursday, Karl witnesses Eric playing keepie uppie with four boys from Orlando's A-level, the best players in JC's footie team. And they are definitely letting Eric win. Karl shakes his head and walks on.

On Friday, Bernard comes into the 'Prancing Pony' to see Eric and Orlando annihilating a group of tourists at darts. Must be they've made up then. Still, Bernard sits at the far end of the counter. Because Eric is waving his hands all over the place and Bernard has been slapped by him accidentally before. And Orlando with a sharp object in his hand? Now there is a thing to be afraid of.

***

Orlando opens his door with a frown on his face. Not that he is actually in a bad mood, but a knock on his door at a quarter past eight on a Saturday? Chances are that it is one of his kids who messed up again, so putting on the disapproving glare right from the start saves time.

It's not a child standing there but Karl and Boris, and Orlando straightens out his forehead.

'You got a woman in there?' Karl asks while Boris gives Orlando a scrutinizing look.

The frown returns to Orlando's face.

'A. No, I don't. And B., even if I did have an orgy in here, I don't see how that'd be any of your business.'

Karl looks unimpressed.

'Yeah, whatever. I was being polite. How about you return the favour?'

Orlando steps aside, and Karl and his dog walk past him, immediately taking up all the space on and in front of the sofa respectively.

'To what do I owe the pleasure?' Orlando asks, climbing over the mass of Boris's sprawled out body.

Karl purses his lips.

'Sean's got PMS.'

'Excuse me?'

'On his couch. Or something like that.' Karl makes a dismissive gesture. 'Didn't ask. There were three crying girls inside his flat, and they frightened Boris.'

Upon hearing his name, Boris raises his head from the carpet. Orlando doesn't think he looks too scared. Karl, on the other hand, does.

'Yeah, that happens', Orlando says. 'Shoulda called ahead.'

'Did that, when we were agreeing on what movie to watch.' Karl pulls a memory stick out of the pocket of his trackie bums. 'Narrowed it down to ten, not one of them has Justin Bieber in it.'

'Justin Who?' Orlando pulls the memory stick out of Karl's hand. It has 'Stuff' scrawled onto it with a marker pen. He looks back at Karl who seems pretty displeased with how his evening turned out.

'Well, I got beer.' He slightly raises the usb stick. 'If you got 'Bullit' on that, I'll even share it.'

Karl gives him a two-thumbs-up, kicks off his trainers to give Boris a belly rub with his foot while Orlando searches for the remote.

***

The afternoon of the first Sunday in February is what you might call very representative for all fifty something Sundays in the year.

Karl goes for a run so early in the morning that he is still the first one at the bakery when he returns. Bernard's wife comes in right after him, makes cooing noises at Boris and somehow gets Karl to agree to pruning the apple tree in her front yard.

Orlando wakes up on his couch with an obscure philosophy book (usually German) on his chest and spends the next five minutes trying to suss out whether he really did call his girlfriend in the middle of the night and turned an offer for phone sex down in favour of ranting about Kant. Again.

Sean has a yelling match with a teenage girl from his footie team, receives a picture (usually a horse) from one of the tiny first years from his house and calls his parents.

Dominic listens to Mahler or Beethoven and shakes his head in disappointment when Gerry claims that he can't tell the difference. (He can, of course, but where would be the fun in that.) Then Gerry talks Dominic into doing something stupid and pointless with him like attending a winching event where people deliberately get stuck in mud in order to winch themselves out again. Dominic says it's stupid and pointless, but Gerry knows he loves the physics behind it.

When the weather is rainy, there is a good chance that Viggo gets maudlin for a while. Mostly Eric can make that go away with food or cricket. If that doesn't work, there is always the option of threatening to sit on him and tickle him. Actually, Viggo doesn't need to be broody for Eric to go for that option. 

***

'Everyone in this fucking school is fucking insane', Orlando says when he returns to the staff room He glares at Sean who still hasn't stopped snickering but now makes a (very poor) effort.

'I fucking hate Gerry', Orlando elaborates and kicks the leg of his chair for emphasis.

Karl, whilst licking cheap chocolate from his lips, leans back in his chair to inspect Orlando's arse.

'Yeah, still there, mate', he says and scrunches up his nose. 'Looks like you shat your pants, man.'

Orlando gives him the deadliest death glare of doom. 

'Where the fuck did he even get all that shit from?'

'Tesco's', Dominic West says as he walks past, scrutinizing the list of contents on a Flakes bar. 'He purchased everything they had on Sale a month ago.' He looks up from his reading material, gaze catching on the back of Orlando's slacks.

'You look like... you had a bit of an unfortunate accident there.'

Sean nearly falls out of his chair, he is laughing so hard. Orlando picks up the squashed chocolate Santa from his otherwise utterly professional desk and tosses it at Sean's head.

'That's thanks to your idiot friend Gerry', he grumbles. 'Why would that idiot leave Christmas chocolate lying all over the place in the middle of February anyway?'

'They didn't have Easter eggs yet,' Gerry says reasonably as he returns from his quest for photocopies. Upon seeing the look on Orlando's face, he wisely stands behind West. West isn't 100% on board with that plan of action.

Orlando doesn't go for the instant physical attack but instead just gives Gerry his patented 'What the fuck' look.

'Of course they don't sell fucking Easter eggs! Why would anyone WANT Easter eggs on February, 6th?'

Dominic rips open his Flakes bar. Sean momentarily pauses, his lips wrapped around the head of a chocolate Santa. Karl licks his fingers. Gerry crosses his arms in front of his chest and allows himself a smug smile. He still keeps Dominic between himself and Orlando, though.

'Dunno why this gets you so hot and bothered, mate', Gerry says, very much avoiding to look at the state of Orlando's trousers. 'You're the one with an affliction for weird holidays, I thought you'd find this out of season Easter egg hunt belter.'

'Today is Lame Duck Day', Orlando says with the kind of quiet voice that his kids fear more than his yelling.

Gerry, still trusting his human shield in the form of West, chooses to ignore that. 

'Bah. I think today would fare much better if it was known as Hide Your Stash Of Christmas Chocolates In The Staff Room To Put A Smile On Your Colleagues Day, what do you say?'

Orlando is silent for a moment. Then, very slowly, he turns to Sean who actually manages to look back at him with not even a smile (even if with traces of chocolate) on his lips.

'In your professional opinion', Orlando says, 'is it too much of a stretch to interpret Lame Duck Day as an opportunity to remove an elected official from his position due to the fact that he is clearly clinically insane by ripping his head off?'

***

'Are you meditating down there?' 

Viggo opens his eyes and finds Eric looming over him. He leaves his hands folded on his stomach and just shrugs, the fluffy carpet tickling his ear.

'Does that sound more mature than sleeping?'

Eric weighs his head from side to side.

'Not really. More bonkers, probably. On the other hand, you teach R.E., so this counts as lesson prep maybe?'

'Could you take a step back, so I don't have to move too much when I want to kick you?'

'Do you one better', Eric says amicably, drops his bag onto his couch and lies down next to Viggo on the new carpet. 

'What are we doing here, though?'

When Viggo turns his head to the side, he finds Eric still looking at him. Viggo gives him a crooked smile.

'Self-preservation. I saw Orlando walking past outside, and I dove for cover.'

Eric beams in response and nods, like this is a perfectly normal thing to do. Then he shifts a little bit on the carpet, maybe a little like you would when testing out a new mattress. 

'It's surprisingly comfortable,' he concludes.

'My words exactly, if you remember.'

Eric chuckles quietly and lightly butts his forehead against Viggo's shoulder. 

'The face of that saleswoman when you climbed on top of that pile of carpets.'

Where their bodies touch, Viggo can feel the vibrations of his amusement at the memory. Viggo unfolds his hands and lifts his arm, Eric shifts a bit and comes to lie on his back, his head pillowed on Viggo's chest. 

For a while they just lie there, listening to each others' breathing and the occasional footsteps in the hallways outside.

'You know these glow in the dark stars', Viggo says eventually, 'the ones you can stick to the wall in your nursery?'

Eric hums, and his verbal response takes him long enough for Viggo to think he might have dozed off.

'Sure, mate. Why?'

Viggo looks up at the ceiling of Eric's flat. In the corner next to the door there is an abandoned spider's web.

'Would you mind if I stuck some up there? Like, fifty or something?'

***

'You know', Viggo says slowly, then waits until Eric looks at him, albeit upside down, 'if this is an attempt at pillow-forting, I think you need to take lessons from some of my boarders.'

Eric flops onto his stomach and props himself up on his elbows to be able to look at Viggo without giving himself vertigo.

'Mate', he replies and makes sure to sound properly offended, 'if I _wanted_ to build a pillow fort, it'd put the fucking Sydney Opera to shame.'

For emphasis, he picks up a couch cushion that somehow found its way onto the floor and tosses it at Viggo. Without effort, Viggo catches it and hugs it to his chest as he leans against the side of the arm chair that Eric pushed out of the way to get more room.

'The opera house, huh? That sort of does look like a pillow fort. Kudos for that simile.'

'It does, doesn't it?' Eric agrees. He gives Viggo another grin, then turns over and sits up, the blanket now pooling in his lap as he fishes the television's remote from under the coffee table. He leans back against the sofa and switches on the telly. 

'You know, Richard Hammond did is this neat program about the [opera house](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-QpGR-NVU90)... give me two minutes...'

For thirty seconds of those alleged two minutes, Viggo remains where he is, but even though he absolutely believes that Eric means to go straight for what he is looking for when he opens youtube, he also knows his best mate. So, he goes to the kitchen, prepares a measuring jug filled with chocolate milk for Eric and finds a bottle of wine for himself. Eric's laughter drifts in from the living room, mingled with the sound of people falling onto their faces and possibly various other body parts. Viggo fixes them a bowl of couscous and shrimp and decides foregoing the wineglass all together.

Eric pats the carpet next to himself when Viggo returns with his spoils, and he has finished his two pints worth of milk before Richard Hammond even reached Sydney harbor. They eat with their fingers, drink Viggo's wine and watch the program, and it's only when youtube automatically starts loading the next episode of 'Engineering connections' in line that Viggo gestures at the pillows strewn all over the carpet.

'If this isn't an attempt at recreating Australia in your living room, what then, mate?'

Eric turns down the volume, but he doesn't immediately reply. Viggo watches the first seven minutes of how the Millau Sky Bridge came together.

'You know, maybe it is'; Eric says then. 'Not Nuns in a Scrum, but -' he shrugs and smacks his lips. 'Home, you know.'

Viggo turns to look at him, and Eric pulls a face.

'Not 'home', really, that's not it. 'Home', that's Jackson, and it's you, 'course it is, but...'

He looks up at the ceiling, at the single crooked star done with a yellow marker pen that Viggo put there yesterday. 

'You know the kind of feeling you last had when you were a kid, still crawling around on the carpet? Like when the worst you had to worry about was bumping your head against the table?'

There is a quietness to his voice that is not quite melancholy, not quite nostalgia, and yet it is both, and he lightly nudges Viggo's shoulder with his own. Viggo has to look back at the telly and watch Richard Hammond build a bridge model out of baguette for a while. It's ridiculous really, the kind of spontaneous burst of love Viggo feels for him sometimes, like his very being contracts and expands around it, and Viggo is left feeling too small and too big at the same time because of it. 

It's minutes later, and Eric started picking the last crumbs of cold couscous out of the bowl, that Viggo finally returns the shoulder nudge.

'So, we're gonna live on the carpet now?'

'Don't see why not'. Eric stretches to deposit the now spit-clean bowl on the coffee table. 'The carpet is comfortable enough, we have an unlimited amount of stupid videos on the internet at our disposal -'

'Acting as a grown man's bedtime story, hm?'

'That, or a Night Nurse stand in, or an unsteady night light, same difference.' Eric shrugs and rests his head against the sofa. 'The important thing is that I can't see my desk from here, and I'm pretty optimistic that my phone ran out of battery an hour or so ago.' As if to defy the unnamed thing that's fraying the edges of his words, he smacks his lips and adds in a lighter tone, 'Plus, this sofa? Perfect cover in case ninjas decide to invade the flat.'

Viggo nods sagely.

'Ah, the daily dangers of being assassinated by ninjas.'

'You don't see them coming. Kind of like stomach bugs.'

'And the worst thing you have to worry about is bumping your head against the table.'

Eric chuckles and pats Viggo's knee, fingertips curling around its cap.

'Got you to look out for that, don't I?'

In response, Viggo picks the remote from the sofa and types ['How Australia became the global superpower of cricket'](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w7knZ68mglo) into youtube's search field. 

'You bet.'

***

'There you are', Sean says, 'I've been looking all over for you.'

Orlando opens his eyes and squints against the afternoon sun. Sean's standing there, dramatically backlit and with a cigarette in the corner of his mouth. Orlando closes his eyes again and doesn't bother removing his arms from the back rest of the bench.

'Yeah, I totally buy that', he replies dead pan. 'Not like you came here to smoke.'

'Whatever. Shift over.'

Orlando curls his lips and waits until Sean unceremoniously nudges his knee until he moves about three inches to the left. Sean thanks him with a grunt and blows the first puff of smoke against the side of Orlando's face. Orlando growls. Sean chuckles.

'I overheard kids from your house', Sean says, and he sounds so pleased with that that Orlando even contemplates opening at least one eye again.

He doesn't.

'You're gonna like this', Sean continues, the smile very prominent in his voice now. 'Because it's hilarious, _and_ it'll give you a reason to lord it over your kids.'

Orlando raises the arm that isn't practically trapped by Sean in order to flip him off.

'Sod off, Sean.'

Sean chuckles again and for about half a cigarette length he shuts up. All Orlando hears is the sound of a couple of tentatively optimistic birds in the trees behind them, and the faint rumbling, scratching, and slapping sounds that are tell tale noises of illegal skateboarding in the lower yard.

'Remember Karl asking Eric whether he's got a ruptured disc?'

'Course I do. It was this morning. Do I look like I'm suffering from Alzheimer's?'

'No. Tourettes', that I believe. But you're much too young and what's the word... rude for Alzheimer's.'

Orlando leans his head back and lets out an exaggerated groan.

'Fine, fine. I bite. Hey, Sean, you said you overheard a conversation? Please, do share all the juicy intel with me. Because God knows that I thrive for gossip from the mouths of teenagers.'

'Amy Jackson and Phil Raymond are convinced that Vig made Eric try out positions from the Kama Sutra.'

At that, Orlando does open his eyes. Sean looks at him as earnest as they come. Orlando tries very hard to hear the sounds of the birds once more. It's near to impossible what with his blood pressure up to 2000.

'According to them, it's 88% certain it happened during 'the elephant',' Sean adds conversationally and brings his cigarette back to his mouth. 'By the way, if you want to borrow my couch to grill them how they would know something like that, you're more than welcome to it till eight tonight. Then I wanna watch the racing.'

***

When Dominic enters the 'Prancing Pony' around ten, he feels like he walked into a Twilight Zone version of the staff room. 

Of course, there are Karl and Sean doing the proper thing to do in a pub – playing darts with a pint each. But as he walks past Bernard's and Dom's booth, the two of them don't even acknowledge his greeting because Dom is too immersed in trying to sway Bernard's vote regarding the upcoming staff trip. 

In one of the other booths at the very end of the bar, Dominic spots Viggo, Eric, Orlando, and a stunningly attractive woman. And even if Orlando hadn't got three open books on the table in front of him (he has), wasn't gesturing aggressively (he is) and should know how to behave himself in front of his girlfriend (he probably doesn't), Dominic would stay well clear of that corner. Eric's presence usually only postpones the inevitable – now, he has one arm slung over Viggo's shoulder and it's not 100% clear whether that is intended to be a gesture of comfort or a precaution to keep him from leaping across the table to strangle Orlando.

Then of course there is Gerry who has taken over the bar and is pulling pints like this was his actual day job. Of course, being Gerry, he almost spills the latest one, when he spots Dominic and waves him over enthusiastically.

So Dominic pulls out a bar stool, sits himself down, and enquires whether Gerry has the actual bar man tied up in the back room. Gerry laughs loud enough for most of their colleagues to automatically look their way. Dominic doesn't think that this counts as a definitive answer.

***

'Ahoy, West!'

'How are you even coherent?'

'You what?'

'How is it possible that you are able to speak _and_ be so chipper about it. I fucking hate you.'

'Now, that's harsh. Talking to the man with his hands on the tap like that.'

'You are tapped. What the hell did you put into my drinks last night? Flunitrazepam?'

'What?'

'Rhohypnol. Date rape drug.'

'Now you're just being crass, mate.'

'Well, let's see, Gerry. I can't remember anything that happened past eleven last night, and I just woke up on Dom Monaghan's couch.'

'Dom Monaghan?'

'Dom Monaghan. Who, by the way, is in his bedroom and someone tied him to his bed. It looks like the fricking set up to badly done bondage porn in there.'

'That was probably... You don't remember ringing me last night?'

'What are you talking about?'

'You called me a couple of hours ago, and mate, you were a bit incoherent, rambling about how it's utterly confusing to have to Dominics walking around Jackson and how there was a good chance that Dom wants to steal your identity.'

'I did?'

'Swear to God.'

'And then you're suggesting it was _me_ who tied him to the bed?'

'Well...'

'I do not like the sound of your voice. The last time when you sounded like that, I ended up hip deep in mud and you nearly ran me over with your stupid car.'

'If it's any consolation, I am pretty sure it wasn't _you_ who did that to Dom.'

'No?'

'Well...'

'Gerry!'

'Aye, okay, it was around two last night, when I closed the pub, and since I am a belter bar man, I didn't drink anything all night which really can't be said about the rest of you. If you give me a second, I can send you a photo I took of Viggo and Eric – Vig was so drunk, Eric had to carry him home. You by any chance know whether he ever worked as a fireman? Cause I am pretty sure that kind of 'throw someone over your shoulder like a sack of potatoes' -'

'Gerry, for fuck's sake! Get to the point!'

'Oh, yeah, right, sorry. Anyroad, you were a bit, let's say, unsteady on your feet since you'd challenged Bernie to a drinking game even though we all know that that's a fool's errand. So, I valiantly offered to carry you home as well, which for some reason you were opposed to. Sean, though, he knows a good offer when he hears one, so we tried that out, but Sean's not really as flexible as Viggo is apparently, so we ended up with this pretty awkward attempt at a piggy back ride and – West? Hello? Dom, you still there?'

…

'What?'

'West, seriously? Did you just hang up on me?!'

'I told you I don't have time for your fairy tales. I spent the last five minutes looking for my damn trousers and guess what I discovered? My belt has been used to tie Dom's right foot to his nightstand. What the hell happened here?'

'I was getting to that. So, Sean and I nearly ended up in the ditch next to the 'Pony', and Karl was being no fucking help at all. Anyway, when we'd given up that particular endeavour, you were already pretty far down the road, with Dom and Orlando.'

'Orlando?'

'Oh, aye. And I'm fairly sure it was he who did the whole tying up last night. See, you did call me and told me about your conspiracy theories and whatnot, but then I reckon you must've rambled yourself to sleep or something, and next thing I know, Orlando has your phone and asks me whether I know anything about tying knots. And mate, of course I do. Did I ever tell you the story about how I can park a boat in less than two minutes... But I digress.'

'The first step is to acknowledge the problem... Where the fuck is my other shoe...?'

'Have you checked the bathroom?'

'Why would I – ? Never mind, I don't even want to know. So, you told Orlando how to tie up Dom like a trussed up chicken?'

'I reckon so. I mean, I was just trying to be helpful and – '

'Yeah, I know the rest of the story, I have met you, you – Jesus fucking Christ!'

'What is it? Did you find your shoe? It was in the bathroom, right?'

'Gerry?'

'Yeah, mate?'

'After you taught Orlando how to be a dungeon master, did you also tell him where to find Dom's Sharpies? And tell him that it would be a good idea to draw a Klingon beard on my face while I was sleeping?!?'

'Well...'

***

'I reckon this is the worst Sunday activity I have ever had to take part in', Eric says very firmly.

'First World Problem, mate', Viggo says as he hands him the treacle.

'But seriously, Vig', Eric insists, and there is definitely a whine in his voice as he peers down at the bowl of... well, it looks like vomit, to be honest. 'Why?'

Viggo pops a handful of dried fruits into his mouth and leans against the counter of JC's kitchen. Sean has gone through the trouble of bringing a folding chair with him on which he sits now, as if to make it even more evident that he is just here to supervise.

'Teaches you to never underestimate Orlando', is what Sean says with a big fucking smug grin on his face. Eric gives him an over-the-shoulder glare before he dutifully adds a disgusting amount of treacle to his work in progress.

'Mr Bloom's punishments are proper weird', Justine Watkins pipes up as she struggles with the scales. 'What is this supposed to teach me?'

'What did you do?' Viggo asks her in return.

She holds the bowl of dried fruits as far away from her as possible as she hands it over to her sister Jennifer.

'Skinny dipping in the pond.'

Eric turns around at that, brows raised to his hairline.

'In this weather? Isn't that punishment in itself?'

'I know, right?' Justine says and Jennifer pops her chewing gum in nonverbal agreement. (There are good chances that this gum is going to end up in their finished product, everyone knows it.) 'Mr Bloom makes no sense, and where is he even?'

'Nursing his hangover, probably. Lightweight', Viggo mutters to Eric, but Sean has indeed the hearing of a watchdog.

'He's not the one spending his Sunday making plum pudding for the entire school, is he?'

'What was your crime, Mr Bana?', Jennifer now returns the question.

'Being the bigger lightweight', Sean answers before Eric has a chance to.

'Word of advice', Eric says, turned to the two girls. 'Never bet against Mr Bloom. He cheats.'

'Oh Christ, less moaning, more baking', Sean instructs, picking up his football mag from the floor. 'Or the whole school is gonna go hungry tonight.'

Defiantly, Eric moans even louder but then switches the blender on.

'Plum pudding', he spits out and shakes his head. 'So random.'

'It's Plum Pudding Day', Justine corrects him and when both Viggo and Eric glance at her with matching frowns, she gives them a long-suffering look. 'You never saw the holiday calendar in Mr Bloom's classroom _or_ in his office? I thought you were his mates.'

Viggo chuckles in response, but Eric turns a dark gaze down at the molasses-like mass in his giant bowl.

'Not anymore. Not anymore.'

***

When Sean splutters coffee, Orlando pulls his neat stack of essays his A-level pupils handed in half an hour ago out of the spraying range before he even looks up. Sean is busy coughing and wiping a more or less fine spray of coffee from the test sheet he has been reading.

'Need a pat on the back or a napkin?'

Sean shakes his head and raises the paper in his hand.

'A bang on the head or an Aspirin to ease the pain, more like.'

Orlando demonstrates a mild amount of interest by minutely raising one eyebrow. Sean takes the purple felt pen he possibly stole from a ten year old girl and now uses for grading (it's not like Orlando gave him a beautiful Kaweko pen for his last birthday. Pleb.) and makes a dramatically over-sized circle around one of his pupil's answers.

'Sometimes', he says by way of explanation, 'I honestly wonder what kind of idiot taught these kids history, their answers are that dense.'

'You did', Orlando says, extremely dead-pan.

Sean looks like he wants to flip him off but has his hands full with paper and felt pen.

'I know that, thank you. Which is why this,' He waves the sheet in Orlando's face, 'makes me want to disappear into the stationary cupboard and weep quietly for five minutes.'

Orlando picks up his coffee mug and crosses his legs at his ankles.

'Good thing you're not a giant fucking drama queen, man.'

Sean looks like this personally offends him and pushes his reading glasses up his nose again before reading out from the sheet.

'The question was “What is the historical significance of February, 13th?”'

Orlando shrugs.

'[The Bombing of Dresden, 1945.](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bombing_of_Dresden) The RAF and the US Air Force destroyed over 90% of the city centre.'

Sean smiles at him, all the pride of a teacher in his pupil on his face, and Orlando may be 40 now, but that doesn't stop the school boy inside of him to feel both stupidly pleased at the same time. To rectify that, he frowns deeply, gestures at Sean's paper and asks, and his voice is gruff when he asks,

'What'd your idiot child write?'

Sean chuckles and shakes his head, then licks his lips as if the answer suddenly was honestly delicious.

'”On February, 13th, 1974, the great singer and songwriter Robbie Williams was born.”'

'That's not wrong', Karl says without looking up from his task of cleaning his whistle.

'Calling Robbie Williams a great singer and songwriter is all kinds of wrong', Orlando contradicts him.

'”Rock DJ” is a good song.'

Orlando makes a retching noise.

'That's all beside the point', Sean says, pointing at the heading of the sheet with his felt pen. 'Peter Gabriel was born today as well, and so was Chuck Yeager.'

'Who's Chuck Yaeger?' Karl asks. He experimentally blows his whistle, which seems to be properly cleaned now, considering the loud sound coming from it that wakes Bernard up from his lunch hour nap two tables over.

Orlando gives Karl the very opposite of Sean's look of teacherly pride.

'Honestly? You know who fucking Peter Gabriel is but draw a blank at Chuck fucking Yeager?'

Karl responds with a full body shrug and a curled up upper lip. Orlando shakes his head.

'My point is', Sean says, still rather determined to stay on topic for some reason, 'that in my class about Nazi Germany and the Second World War, a question about February, 13th clearly is not about any celebrity's special day, is it?'

Dom West walks past their table, a cup of strawberry Yogurt in his hand.

'Wagner died on February, 13th, 1883. Hitler's favourite composer.'

Karl's upper lip curls again. Maybe because he dislikes Wagner. Maybe because he doesn't know who Wagner is. 

Sean's face freezes momentarily, but then he smiles and nods at Dom West, mostly so Dom West walks on and doesn't set fire to any of Sean's things (there is a history). 

Orlando takes a sip from his mug and weighs his head from side to side.

'Well, I'd give him half the points for that.'

***

On February, 14th, Mr Bloom's classroom is kinda like a safe haven. Not that Liv's gonna tell him that, mind. First off, he'd throw a proper fit for calling his room anything religious, even if it's clearly metaphor-like. Also, he doesn't need to know that she doesn't hate his classes or his head would grow even bigger, won't it.

But thing is, she is actively relieved when she comes into his classroom after lunch and it's not decked out in all kinds of stupid Valentine's stuff. And Mr Bloom, he takes one look at her when she arrives five minutes early and kinda disturbs him reading one of his dusty books.

'Who're you running from?' he asks.

'Stupid fucking Valentine's Day', she says and leans against the wall, her bag hugged to her chest. 'It's a right hassle.'

He gives her one of his head-tilted-to-the-side scrutinizing looks, like she is having him on or something.

'You're a teenage girl', he points out, picks up the sponge and starts on the blackboard. 

She scrunches up her nose. Stating the obvious there, mate.

'This day is tailored to teenage girls.'

Liv kinda wants to tell him to go and fuck himself, but that'd probably mean he'd send her to spend the afternoon on Mr Bean's couch and she's definitely had enough of him for the day.

'Yeah, well,' she says instead, 'you grown ups did a proper job to ruin it, didn't you? This morning, right, I had to listen to Mrs Blanchet waxing on about French love poetry for an hour, and to Mr Bana waxing on about –'

'Mr Mortensen?'

Liv pulls a face.

'Ew, Mr Bloom.'

Mr Bloom looks right pleased with himself because he's a weirdo, but then he nods like he's agreeing with her.

'And you're in a strop because the guys from student council didn't deliver any flowers to you?'

'Get lost', Liv scoffs. 'Like I want a stupid cactus or summat from some spaz.'

Mr Bloom automatically glances at the small collection of cacti on his window sill.

'They're not doing roses this year?'

Liv gives him her best pitying look.

'Seriously? You should have a chat with Mr Bean.'

Something like a smile briefly comes near Mr Bloom's mouth before it thinks better of it and disappears again.

'So, he rediscovered his interest in Victorian [floriography](http://www.languageofflowers.com/). Didn't think that would catch on with student council.'

Liv rolls her eyes.

'Yeah, whatevs. It's weird.'

Mr Bloom briefly interrupts his wipedown of the board to give her another one of his x-ray looks.

And yeah, okay, Liv's day hasn't been that bad till lunchtime came round. She got to make fun of Mo for accidentally sitting on a cactus and Mr Mortensen traumatized half of her year by going into way too much gory detail about St Valentine's beheading. 

But honestly, you try staying in a good mood when you call your brother during lunchtime to have a chat with him about the football, and he tells you he is currently too busy shagging his husband. And yet he picked up the bloody phone. The two of them solely exist to make her vom. Seriously.

Mr Bloom tilts his head.

'You alright, though, Liv?' he asks, and honest, it's almost like he sounds kinda concerned. It's all kinds of wrong.

Liv let's out a big sigh and tosses her bag onto her desk before slumping down on her chair.

'I'm just saying, it's bloody Valentine's Day, isn't it? Makes people act like complete muppets. '

Mr Bloom chuckles and scribbles [something about hedgehogs](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hedgehog%27s_dilemma) onto the blackboard.

'A man who has some heat in himself prefers to remain outside, where he will neither prick other people nor get pricked himself.'

And honest, the bit about the safe haven? Liv takes it all back.

***

'All right?' Sean asks, when Viggo steps up next to him. 'You look a bit... peaky.'

Viggo groans as he undoes the fly of his jeans.

'For one thing, I needed to piss for two hours.'

'Yeah, something the world at large didn't need to know', Orlando says sternly, giving the soap dispenser another squeeze.

Viggo just groans again, this time in relief as at least one half of his problems gets solved.

'And for another?' Sean asks, the amusement clear in his voice.

'Right, so I asked my third formers with whom, if they could choose from all of history, they would like to spend an afternoon.'

'[Nosey](http://sharpe.wikia.com/wiki/Arthur_Wellesley)', Sean decides with complete determination, and at the same time, Orlando asks, 'Seriously? You're still doing this?'

'Sean, I really don't get why you would choose Wellington if you could have Napoleon instead?' Viggo says, addressing the smaller problem first.

'Oh, I can tell you that –' Sean starts and hits the urinal's flush button with so much vigor that everyone present in the teachers' loo knows that this heralds a long lecture about Sean's man crush, Arthur Wellesley, first Duke of Wellington.

'And Orlando', Viggo says, firmly ignoring Sean's overture, 'I told you in 1995, and I will tell you now: [Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Georg_Wilhelm_Friedrich_Hegel) is not a valid choice if all you want to do is punch him in the face.'

Orlando scoffs and pulls a paper towel out of the dispenser with way too much force.

'Please. I'm not a teenager anymore. Today, I'd prove to him how his absolute idealism is utter bullshit.'

'And _then_ you'd punch him in the face', Sean says, greatly amused, and jostles Orlando out of the way to get to the washbasin.

'And then I'd punch him in the face', Orlando agrees with a nod. 'Very different, though.'

'Course it is', Sean says in a tone of voice that makes Orlando actively contemplate tossing his crumpled up paper towel at his head. With his hands under the water spray, Sean looks over his shoulder to Viggo again. 'So, what got you so worked up this year? Was it half your class opting for Hitler again?'

Viggo groans for a third time, this time at the memory, but he shakes his head and zips up.

'Benedict Mitchum told me he wanted to meet Aragorn II, son of Arathorn.'

Sean chuckles, Orlando frowns. Viggo sighs and flushes.

'No clue where they get these ideas.'

***

The floorboards creak under Viggo's feet as he climbs the staircase in semi-darkness. It should all be quiet and peaceful, safe maybe for Julian McDonagh's snoring; it's late enough. 

However, there is a noise emitting from the end of the corridor, a very distinctive melody. And as Viggo walks closer, a trauma (buried for twenty years) blindsides him and he briefly has flashbacks to pupils pressing against one another and stretching their arms to their sides whenever they stand next to a railing (ships optional).

Still. That doesn't prepare him for what awaits him when he actually opens the last door to the left on the corridor. The room's lights are switched off, but there is no doubt that all three inhabitants are wide awake. Jay Thomas is holding two flashlights and is waving them about like he is fighting an invisible Jedi. Kilian O'Riley is dancing in the flickering lights, and with abandon. And Younes Ansari is holding his flashlight like a microphone, its light creating absurd shadows on his chubby face.

And all three of them wholeheartedly sing along to Celine Dion's 'My heart will go on'.

That is, until they see Viggo standing in the backlit doorway. Then they fall abruptly silent; Celine now wailing solo from the speakers of Kilian's iPod.

All three stare at Viggo wide-eyed and frozen to the spot. Viggo, for a moment, does exactly the same.

Then he closes the door again and walks away.

He could so do with some of Dom's pot right now. 

***

It's one of those days, a rainy Friday in February, and their joint half-day field trip to York's Castle Museum has gone less than smoothly so far, and neither Viggo nor Orlando nor Sean are impervious to the strain the myriad of little annoyances provides. 

The bus is late ('I could've taken a piggy back ride from Eric and we'd still have been there quicker'), Simon Malwell inexplicably exits the bus with a bleeding head wound ('It's non-lethal, stop whinging' - Orlando Nightingale Bloom, everyone), and Sean's collection of about a thousand coins worth of collected entry fees spills all over the staircase at the entrance which is just too bloody typical.

And then, of course, there is the fact that Sean must've been completely drunk when he agreed to accompany Viggo and Orlando. Somehow over the quarter of a century that the two of them have known each other, they've managed to dig the trenches continuously deeper and used the time to perfect their sniping techniques.

Bernie and Cate think it incredibly entertaining, and Sean would love to agree with them. He would agree with them - he's not delusional enough to believe that all of Sean's mates could just get along with each other if they just tried hard enough. 

It's just...

Just ten minutes into the exhibition on the horrors of the First World War - three of Orlando's fourth formers (buzz cuts and trousers and shirts as close to ghetto gangster style as you can get within school uniform guidelines) huddle around them, their habitual attempt at aloofness erased by honest and heartfelt appal. Orlando takes them aside as the rest of the group shuffles on. His expression is as stern, his look is as sharp as ever. But with his unemotional quiet voice he talks them down - possibly explaining the concept of weltschmerz to them, if Sean knows him right - and it helps. It's not by accident or foolishness that the boys turned to him, after all.

As their guide moves them along, Sean comes to stand behind Viggo whose hand rests consolingly on Jana Simpson's shoulder as she wipes tears from her cheeks.

Orlando's and Viggo's schism would be hilarious. If they weren't so bloody alike. 

***

The following resolutions were made for the week of half-term holidays:

Orlando is determined to finally get his teeth into [the Habermas biography](https://www.theguardian.com/books/2017/feb/15/habermas-biography-stefan-muller-doohm-review) that Sean got him for Christmas. Also, he isn't opposed to Katy's counter-proposal (though he sees it more as an addendum to his own plan) to have sex at least twice every day.

Sean doesn't have any particular book on his shelf that can't wait. He can focus all his energy on wooing his acquaintance from last month's trip to Birmingham, the one with the Norton Commando.

Bernard recently sent Gerry a link to a website [about eclectic hobbies](http://www.notsoboringlife.com/). Gerry set himself the goal to find Dominic West a hobby; setting lab equipment on fire really can't be fulfilling. To achieve that he is determined to try out at least three promising fun past times every day. Saturday is going to be test-run day for candle making, beatboxing, and shark fishing. Well, in Gerry's bathtub. He is very optimistic to have the perfect hobby for West by the end of the week.

West is going to spend his week dreaming up fun ways to kill Gerry. And possibly Bernard.

Eric has no particular resolutions for the upcoming week, nothing out of the ordinary anyway. His life will just continue revolving around a. cricket, b. the love of his life, c. the other love of his life. Australia's tour of India started on Friday, his Falcon needs a proper waxing, and he and Vig spent under fifty hours in each other's company over the course of last week. Eric is going to develop the Viggo-equivalent of scurvy if this isn't fixed asap.

Viggo is all set to being Eric's metaphorical slice of orange.

***

As far as Sundays go, Bernard definitely had better ones in his life. As it is, he supposes he has to count his blessings. It isn't raining, and he was smart enough to put on Wellingtons when he left the house. That is about it, though, since his idea of an ideal Sunday afternoon doesn't involve woodlands, yelling 'Boris, Boris, where the hell are you?' until he is hoarse or getting yelled at by elderly women with tiny mops of hairy dogs because 'Was that your brute of a dog that tried to molest my darling Fufu? How dare you!'.

When he returns home around dusk and finds that Boris has found his way back there hours ago, he vows to pay more attention. Next time, when Karl asks him for a favour, Bernard will not nod distractedly whilst focussing most of his attention on the cake Cate brought to the staff room. He will listen to Karl's explanation involving an impromptu holiday on Mallorca and how Boris won't fit into his hand luggage. And he will nod and say 'tough luck, my friend' and walk away.

***

For weeks, February, 20th has been marked in the calendar by some people. The same selected group of people have spent mentally preparing for this for even longer. These people... you know, they probably wish to remain anonymous because let's face it, there are some addictions for which there aren't even self-help groups because the stigma is just too great. 

Okay, it's Orlando and Sean. But for Sean, it's something he has shared with his parents since he was thirteen, and who are you to shame him for honoring family traditions, huh? HUH? And as for Orlando? He blames Sean. As per usual.

Anyway. 

If you don't know anything about how the world works and / or possibly don't value your life, then you might try and call Orlando or Sean in the early evening hours of February, 20th. You won't, of course, actually reach anyone.

With Sean, you'd just hear the phone ringing and ringing until you get bored. 

With Orlando, it'd automatically switch to voicemail and you'd hear the following message:

_'You've reached Orlando Bloom. I can't take your call at this moment, but please don't hesitate to leave a message after the tone. I will return your call as soon as I am able which, in case you happen to call between seven and seven thirty, is when 'Emmerdale' is over. However, if you happen to call between seven and seven thirty on February, 20th, _I_ have a message for _you_ : Why the fuck are you trying to call me during [the fucking wedding of the fucking year](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LuKuadBdNyo)? Do you WANT me to kill you? Honestly, I can't even -'_

_'Orlando, stop messing with your phone and sit down already, it's STARTING!'_

_'I can fucking see that, can't I? Stop hassling me! - Anyway, leave a message or don't, I don't care. Now fuck off.'_

_BEEP._

***

Viggo tries very hard not to laugh when he sees Eric. For about a second, maybe two, then he has to clasp a hand over his mouth, and that doesn't really hide his amusement.

Eric's eyebrows do a thing where they maybe try to frown at Viggo, but they don't really manage because the rest of his face is too busy looking traumatized and being covered in smears of red-and-black-and-white-make-up.

'Did you walk across school grounds looking like this?' Viggo asks and still actively tries to stop himself from laughing.

With unsteady steps (and it's not because of unusually large footwear, Viggo checks) Eric makes his way to the couch and gives Viggo a shaky wave of a warning to scoot over before collapsing on the cushions. Viggo makes a commiserating noise and pats his thigh, suggesting it as a headrest.

'How does West do it every day?' Eric asks as the back of his head is pillowed in Viggo's lap.

'Well, he tries to blow up the school on a regular basis', Viggo says. 'I'm not sure whether that's the healthiest coping technique.'

Eric turns his wide eyed, non blinking stare up at Viggo. He did a particularly poor job of removing the black diamonds around his eyes, it looks more like he had a proper cry and smeared it like that.

'I can relate to that, mate', he then says with a heavy sigh. 'Gerry is certifiably crazy.'

Viggo weighs his head from side to side.

'I don't know. It kinda does suit you.'

Eric purses his lips, and the remainders of the comically large down-turned mouth painted onto his face does a pretty good job at conveying his displeasure. Viggo cards his fingers through Eric's curls to make up for it, and Eric sighs and closes his eyes.

'Why didn't you stop me, Vig.'

Viggo keeps stroking and wonders whether Gerry made him wear a wig; like a giant red one for example.

'You were so enthusiastic about it', he says, '”That sounds like fun, Vig. - It'll be a laugh. - And West needs a hobby and I'm being a mate.” Remember?'

Eric sighs again and turns his face into Viggo's stomach. Viggo bites the inside of his cheek to keep himself from laughing, 

'Yeah, yeah, mate. But Clown School?'

He presses his face against Viggo's belly. Viggo thinks that it's a good thing that he's wearing an old sweater. This one is gonna have the imprint of the face of a very sad clown on it.

***

It's very early in the morning – too early even for Viggo's wonky alarm clock which can't be talked into taking term breaks into account – when Viggo wakes up because his bed covers are dragged from him. Since his sleeping self is very partial about not being parted from said covers, however, he nearly gets dragged out of the bed with them. Ending up half-hanging over the edge of the bed, he opens his eyes and (no surprise there) comes face to face with an upside down view of Eric's tracky bums clad thighs.

'Why?' he asks, stretching the vowel to a length that allows him to close his eyes again and clutch his blanket a little tighter in the meantime.

Eric – fully awake and in general quite a bit stronger than Viggo – pulls again. Viggo ends up on the floor after all.

'You got ten minutes, mate.'

Eric's cheerfulness is infectious enough to instantly dissolve Viggo's brewing complaint, if not his tiredness. He blinks up at Eric a little owlishly.

'Ten minutes for what?'

'Ten minutes to pack whatever you need.'

Eric lets go of the bed covers and walks over to Viggo's drawer and pulls it open. He throws a handful of boxer shorts over his shoulder in Viggo's general direction, and a checkered one lands on Viggo's head.

'Nine minutes, thirty seconds', Eric continues. 'Then I'm gonna drag you out of here and into my baby, and I don't care if you got shaving cream on your face or only one sock on.'

One of the boxer shorts buttons got caught in Viggo's hair, and he has a bit of difficulty removing it.

'Fair enough', he replies and decides to go for pick and painful in terms of removal procedures. 'But why?'

Eric beams at him.

'Road trip, mate!'

With determined strides, he leaves the bedroom, and from what Viggo guesses is the direction of the kitchen, he finishes his explanation.

'Gerry and I have a bet going. We need to go to the Shetland islands.'

Viggo, who by now managed to get to his feet, put on another sock, hops on the spot to get his left leg into his jeans.

'Okay.'

'I talked Sean into taking over your duties until Saturday', Eric calls, rummaging through Viggo's fridge. 'Well, I say 'talked', I bribed him. Anyway, you're good to go.'

Viggo successfully concludes the getting dressed part of the day.

'Okay', he calls back. 'Why, though?'

Eric's reply is muffled by what is probably half a banana.

'I'll explain later. Pack your camera.'

So Viggo does. When Eric, true to his promise, pushes him out of the door eight minutes later, Viggo is carrying a stuffed Tesco bag. It contains his toothbrush, two pairs of boxer briefs, a woolen hat that is technically Sean's, aforementioned camera, a medium sized package of Kellogg's Peanut Butter Clusters, his phone, and the abridged version of [Cao Xueqin's 'Story of the Stone' ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/dream_of_the_red_chamber). The latter partly because he has been reading it last night, but mostly because Eric throws it at him as Viggo is taking too long brushing his teeth.

He tosses it into the backseat of Eric's Falcon where it is in good company of Eric's overnight bag and straps himself in. Eric is already waking half of JC's residents by revving the engine to convey his excitement for the day ahead.

Of course, the Falcon doesn't have satnav since Eric thinks it'd be a desecration of mankind's most beautiful piece of art. As they pull out of JC's parking lot, they silently agree that road maps are for idiots as well. It can't be that hard to find the Shetland islands – it's just heading North, after all.

As soon as they are on the M6, Viggo's late night reading catches up with him. He dozes of to the healthy rumble of the Falcon's V8 engine and Eric singing along to whatever Radio 2 has to offer.

When he wakes up, it's not because Eric pulled away his covers (or rather Eric's coat which Viggo fashioned into a makeshift blanket). Instead the slight change of the car's sound as it slows down and sudden silence from the driver's seat stir Viggo's slumbering consciousness.

Instead of sheep and Shetland ponies (which is about all Viggo knows about the Shetland Islands, if he's being honest), the much more mundane sight of a petrol station greet him outside when he opens his eyes.

'We're almost running on empty', Eric says as he pulls up next to the petrol pumps.

A glance at the dashboard reveals that this is very much not true – as if Eric would ever risk that. There is a fancy looking car wash just ahead of them which is the much more likely explanation for the impromptu stop.

'Did we pack food?' Viggo asks and rubs his eyes. 'Other than my Kellogg's?'

In response, Eric lifts the Kellogg's box from between his legs and shakes it to prove its emptiness.

So Viggo gets food from the minimart while Eric fills up on petrol. They wait for the Falcon to finish its beauty treatment in the car wash, eating sandwiches and drinking coffee from paper cups, before they drive on.

Eric proclaims that his vocal cords are getting sore from all the singing, so Viggo switches the radio off and offers to sing for Eric instead – if he makes up the lyrics on the go, there is no chance that Eric can sing along. As it turns out, Viggo's talent for songwriting is a bit rusty and all his impromptu creations feature traffic jams and lorry drivers running amok. 

Despite the apocalyptic scenery he paints with his words, they reach Glasgow without even a hint of thick traffic, and it's there, in , Gerry's hometown, that Viggo remembers the reason for their impromptu trip – the bet.

'What exactly is that about?' he asks just as they drive past a slightly dented “Welcome to Glasgow” sign.

'Well, it all started with Gerry being a giant idiot', Eric says, as if that needed pointing out. 

The story that follows makes about as much sense as watching an Almodovar movie in Russian. It doesn't really surprise Viggo – it does feature Gerard Butler as one of the protagonists after all – but it leads to Eric getting completely turned around in the city centre. They stop for an early lunch in a pub whose only redeeming feature is its fenced off parking lot and the onion rings that Viggo orders more by accident than by design, and they leave again with Viggo being none the wiser as to the reason for their trip.

They are still heading North, and it's only when a sudden rainfall of truly epic proportions washes over them that Eric looks at Viggo.

'You know, it just occurred to me that we'll probably need to take a ferry.'

It is true, of course. The Falcon is many things, but amphibious it isn't. So Viggo looks up the schedules of the ferries leaving from Aberdeen on his phone and while he's at it, he sends Sean a message thanking him for taking over.

'What is it?' Eric asks when, two minutes later, Viggo suddenly laughs out loud.

'Sean says hi and next time you invade his home at five in the morning, he'll give you a proper slap.'

Eric takes one hand off the wheel to wave dismissively, then turns the radio back on and is delighted to find Shakira coming from the speakers. He starts singing along again, and Viggo kicks of his shoes and manages to get his book from the bag on the backseat.

'C'mon, read something to me', Eric demands when they've just passed Dundee, and so Viggo does. Their subsequent conversation about dreams and reality and the nature of fiction somehow lands them on a seemingly abandoned lay-by in the middle of nowhere, Eastern Scotland, and causes them to very nearly miss their ferry from Aberdeen.

It's only when the Falcon is parked safely in the belly of the ferry and the two of them made it to the upper deck, the collars of their coats turned up against the late afternoon chill, that Viggo nudges Eric's arm.

'Mate, why the Shetland Islands?'

Eric's features, a second before slightly strained due to the sharp wind, instantly soften; an instant transition from hardened sailor to impish lad.

'It's where they have Shetland ponies, right?'

'I believe so. Why?'

Eric nudges Viggo back and turns towards the ocean, the ferry's lights illuminating the otherwise dark blue water.

'I bet Gerry I could carry a Shetland pony the distance of the Nunthorpe Stakes.'

Viggo stuffs his hands into the pockets of his jacket and shuffles a little closer to Eric, because of the cold and the rocking of the ferry and just because.

'That's, what, five furlong? Absolutely doable.'

***

The ferry from Aberdeen to Lerwick takes twelve and a half hours. 

'It's pronounced 'Lerrick', Vig', Eric says around midnight, when they found their way to one of the bars. 'Lerrrrrick.'

'Did Gerrrrry teach you that?' Viggo asks.

'Oh no, 'e taught me nowt', Eric replies with uttermost seriousness. Not only does he do a scarily good imitation of Gerry's Glaswegian, he also has Gerry's facial expressions, his exuberant gestures, even his way of sprawling over a bar stool down perfectly. 

For the next half hour or so, he speaks, gestures, _blinks_ like Gerry. Viggo repeatedly chokes on his beer when Eric spins one of Gerry's tall tales about Scotland and only stops when the barman gives him first skeptical, then downright dirty looks of disapproval. By that point, Viggo has already sampled several of the locally brewed beers (the White Wife being his favourite so far). Eric of course sticks to orange juice but insists that Viggo drinks his share of beer as well.

Around two a.m. they – Viggo, that is – switch to scotch and try one-upping one another with idiotic descriptions of the taste. Eric surrenders when Viggo comes up with a (very tasteful) limerick that involves Glenfiddich and going down on a 80 year old distiller. 

Viggo celebrates his victory by doing an impromptu jig with a slightly flustered random young woman who happens to sleepwalk past. Then he orders the rest of the well advertised Shetland beers. 

After that... his memory is a bit jumbled.

He does have a pretty good recollection of the rest of the boat trip and, in fact, the rest of February, 23rd. But it is less like a properly lit feature film and more like... a dented shoe box filled with somewhat blurry Polaroid snapshots that someone gave a good shake and tumble before thrusting it in his hands.

So, when they return to the B&B in Lerrrrrick, Viggo collapses on the bed decorated with the contents of his Tesco bag, and he is sure that all of the below mentioned things happened at some point during the day. Well, fairly sure. About most things. He just isn't so certain when it comes to the actual chronology of the following events:

One of the Shetland pony establishments they go to doesn't want to let them borrow a pony. A woman with a hat that must have been manufactured pre-war gives them a funny look when Eric parks the Falcon in front of the dollhouse-sized stables. And when they can't produce and appropriately-sized child from the backseat, she sends them away without even asking what they want.

The boot of the Falcon is filled with Shetland beer. And carrots.

They are in the middle of a field where Eric _thought_ he saw a Shetland pony (it was an oddly shaped shrub) when Orlando calls. Skipping the hello, he throws a two minute bitch-monologue at Eric's head (ear) about how they left him and Sean with all the work. Eric listens patiently, then pretends to be Gerry for the rest of the phone call.

Talking of 'pretending to be someone else', Eric must've left it up to Viggo and his phone to find them their accommodation on the fly. [The Aald Harbour B&B](http://www.booking.com/hotel/gb/aald-harbour-bed-amp-breakfast.de.html?aid=375009;label=shetland-tbQbwX1dX_8unqN2I%2AeNXwS140012015657%3Apl%3Ata%3Ap1%3Ap2%3Aac%3Aap1t1%3Aneg%3Afi%3Atiaud-146342136550%3Akwd-12262940629%3Alp9044079%3Ali%3Adec%3Adm;sid=facf5ffc20f6b26465c44dc8048630e9;openedLpRecProp=1;ccpi=1) isn't such a bad choice, considering that Viggo must've been completely pissed by the time he booked it. However, he suspects he might've told something else than the truth regarding their reasons for staying there. The friendly woman behind the reception doesn't volunteer any information where to find carry-able Shetland ponies. Instead she offers a lot of wink-wink kind of whispered tips for romantic spots around Lerwick. Also, she calls both him _and_ Eric 'Mr Mortensen'.

While they are having lunch (or some other important meal of the day, Viggo isn't so sure about the exact timing here), Eric gets chatting with the owner, Douglas. As it happens, Douglas owns a Shetland pony. Or his seven year old daughter does. The pony lives in a shed behind the pub, and it is called 'Coconut'. Or (again, Viggo can't be particularly sure about this; he filled up on beer during 'lunch ') the pony's name might be 'Bobby' or 'Peter' or something else, and it just bears astounding resemblance to a coconut. A giant hairy coconut that weighs approx. two tons. In any case, Eric takes one look at it and then politely thanks Douglas for his time and drags Viggo away.

In their quest for a Shetland pony with anorexia, they somehow end up on a beach. It is very pretty and also very windy. So windy, in fact, that Viggo's woolen hat (which is still technically Sean's) gets blown right off his head and into the sea. Eric says that this is going to make one lucky otter very happy.

That incident is probably very closely followed by them temporarily abandoning their search for a pony in favour of otters, and – 

'Hey, Eric, did we see otters today?' Viggo asks, raising his voice so he doesn't have to get up from his bed for Eric to hear him under the shower.

'Course we did', Eric hollers back cheerfully, temporarily turning the water off. 'A mother and her mean-spirited cub.'

Viggo smiles at the ceiling. Eric sounds like Gerry again, and it is about as plausible that this otter spotting ever happened as it is that Gerry is actually a certified barrister (which he frequently claims when West blows stuff up which is also very frequent).

'That sounds fantastic', Viggo calls out anyway.

'It was, mate. You named them Sean and Spawn-of-Satan, it was beautiful!'

With that, Eric turns the water back on and starts singing again, a melody that has been on his tongue all day. 

A message from Sean makes Viggo's phone buzz. It informs him that he just caught Mikael Burdin and Jason Franks in the bike shed with their pants down. Viggo can see Sean's ever-patient eyeroll through the text.

'Must be love', he types back. 'It's freezing there this time of the year.'

Sean takes less than thirty seconds to reply.

'Love or not, YOU're giving them The Talk once you're back. Skiver.'

Viggo sends him a thumbs up, then googles 'sex talk' and gets re-directed to [a fantastic tutorial on youtube from the 1950s](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S0THtfQWBkY). It kind of leaves out hasty sex with a rugby mate in the bike shed.  
Somewhere in the middle of it, Eric returns from the bathroom and the fantastic animation and thrilling narrative instantly enthralls him, too, of course. So, he is still standing at the side of Viggo's bed, towel-clad and dripping on the carpet, when the video is over.

'I so hope this is part of the R.E. curriculum, mate', he says and pokes his waterlogged ear.

'It will be now', Viggo replies.

'You are an evil man', Eric says with acceptance. 'I love you.'

While he then proceeds to rummage through his bag in search of his hairdryer (he packed a little more sensibly than Viggo), Viggo picks up his camera to flick through the pictures they took today. There is a curious amount of snaps of various bits of the Falcon, of stunning landscape and weird cloud formations, none of otters (which figures), of Eric knee deep in the sea trying to reach Sean's bobble hat, of Eric stuffing his face, of Eric – 

'Huh', Viggo breathes out.

Eric turns his attention from the news on the television back to him.

'What?'

Viggo uses the zoom function to get a closer look at the picture.

'So, you won the bet.'

Eric gives him a look of amused fondness.

'Yeah, course I did. You were there, mate', he says before looking back at the telly.

Viggo hums again, then flicks through the rest of the series of photos. They all show Eric in front of slightly varying landscape (well, different parts of the same pasture, really), hugging a Shetland foal to his chest that is [half the size of Boris](http://www.pferd4fun.de/minipferd/03.jpg). Viggo can't decide who looks more smitten, the foal or Eric. He only hopes that tomorrow morning he won't find a miniature horse on the passenger seat of the Falcon.

***

From: Someecards  
Sent: Friday, 24.2. 2017 10:18  
To: s.bean@jackson-college.co.uk  
Subject: Viggo has sent you a card from someecards.com!

Hi Sean,  
Viggo (occasionallyiamjesus@gmail.com) has sent you an ecard:

Message:

Thank you for telling Orlando that you told me to give Mikael and Jason the sex talk. No, really. I think it's great that the blossoming love of two of our best rugby players provides so much amusement for Orlando's cold, cold heart. It's absolutely fantastic that he keeps texting me suggestions as to how to approach the subject. Because we all know that if there is someone we all would turn to when sensitivity is needed, then of course it would be Orlando. So thank you so very, very much.

Viggo

P.S. I don't care what Eric promised you in return for taking over for the last two days, but I consider our debt paid.

\-----------------------

Lerrrrrrick, 24/2/2017

Dearest Gerry,

we are sending you this card so you have something to cheer you up in this time of sorrow. BECAUSE I WON THE FUCKING BET, IN YOUR FACE, MATE. So, just a reminder of what you owe me:  
#1 – Petrol and accommodation for my baby for a trip to see [Twiglet](http://www.westernmorningnews.co.uk/twiglet-thrives-freedom-manor/story-17002303-detail/story.html).  
#2 – Coming to the next staff meeting as 'Numpty, the clown'. I expect the full shebang.  
#3 – That thing with West and the stink bomb and Orlando's classroom.  
And as a one time offer: I'll join ~~you~~ Numpty as [Poida](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NqFcdz4gGKA) if you talk to Jay and Mike about keeping their dicks to themselves when surrounded by bicycles.

Greetings, Eric

***

Holidays leave Dominic with a certain sense of... foreboding. He mentioned it to Gerry once who nodded emphatically and said that it was exactly like when he eats delicious paprika even though he knows perfectly well it gives him the runs. Dominic didn't need to know that, but as far as similes go, it's not half bad.

He returns from a holiday in a location he'd rather not disclose, drops off his suitcase at his room and walks to his lab, passing through the main building. 

Technically it has been just four days, but previous experience has taught him that this is absolutely enough time for things to go completely down the drain in this place. He just remains undecided which of the three following observations is most worrying: 

1) The door to Gerry's room is plastered with posters showing tiny horses gallopping across misty meadows.

2) Sean, Orlando, and Dom have taken over the main common room which now looks like Churchill's war room, and Dominic definitely heard the words 'school-wide week of project-based-learning'.

3) There is a not small amount of C4H10 missing from his lab.

Dominic looks out the window of his lab, and outside, Viggo and Eric just finished putting up a set of folding chairs next to a small barbecue grill. He straightens the lapel of his lab coat and decides three things:

1) This place is actually safer when all of the pupils are here to lower the percentage of insane people.

2) Gerry is in fact a thirteen year old girl, trapped in a 6'2'' man's body.

3) He needs to find a new flat off of JC's campus. There need to be people in existence willing to let who haven't heard about the incident from last October. And after all, it's not his fault that PVC is so easily flammable.

***

The sole reason why Bernard would set foot on Jackson College's premises on a Sunday normally would be... He cannot think of an occasion when that has ever happened in this millennium. There was one time, it must have been in the mid-90s, when he found himself on school grounds on a sunny Sunday afternoon for a football match that Sean had initiated. That in itself is shocking enough, considering that Bernard is not a religious man but firmly believes that God had a good reason to rest on Sundays. But he wasn't even just there as a spectator or as a chaperon. No, it turned out to be a teacher vs. pupils match and Sean had the audacity to stick him into the goal and claim that Bernard had agreed to this weeks before. Unsurprisingly, the teaching staff lost.

Since that day, Bernard very much avoids spending his Sundays at Jackson College. Especially if they happen to be the last day of the week-long term break and there is a fair chance of getting trampled to death by teenagers returning to the nest. 

However, Bernard still has this dog-shaped furuncle that he would very much like to get rid off. (It is sufficient to say that over his week-long stay in the Hill household, Bernard and Boris have not become mates. The low point of their forced-upon partnership was reached on Wednesday, when Boris rather firmly insisted that he, Boris, would be sleeping in the bed with Marianne, and that Marianne's wedded husband, Bernard, could take the couch or the dog-bed for all he cared).

So, Bernard is really rather desperate for a chance to deposit the slobbering menace. And since Karl texted him that he would drive from the airport straight to JC to 'see how much Sean fucked up training the girls without me', Bernard inadvertently finds himself next to a football field on Sunday.

After watching the disturber-of-the-peace turn into a puppy in dire need of a belly rub – Bernard is very happy that Boris is not returning home with him tonight, considering that he rolled around in the mud at Karl's feet –, Bernard makes a valiant attempt at getting away. Of course that attempt is ruined when Orlando spots him. 

Bernard is not certain when Orlando decided to become boss of them all. It might have been during aforementioned catastrophic football match in the 90s, when Orlando was still playing for the pupils' side and saw their sixteen to naught (or something like that) destruction as proof for their ultimate weakness. In any case, he ends up following Orlando back to the main teaching building and into the common room where he has to listen to Orlando talk about project-oriented teaching and how Bernard should team up with Johnny to stage Shakespeare.

Now, Bernard would have switched his hearing aids off – metaphorical ones, of course; he just wishes he was hard-of-hearing and could switch his aids off whenever, well, Orlando is around – but accidentally getting stuck with Boris taught him something at least. So he nods and oohs and ahhs for a while until Orlando is satisfied, but he definitely doesn't make any promises or signs anything.

Orlando gets distracted thanks to a confused and traumatized looking boy who is possibly in Bernard's fifth year and is maybe named Mikael (Bernard isn't too good with names). He comes up to Orlando, even waits until they have finished, all the while sea-sawing from one foot to the other rather nervously, and then asks 'whether you have a minute, sir, please, if it's no bother'. Bernard finds it rather reassuring that even 16 year old rugby players are reduced to bumbling, stuttering messes in Orlando's closer vicinity, and he takes the chance and flees.

On his way out of the common room, he gets waylayed by two second form girls, however. They commandeered the one table not occupied by Orlando's project-oriented-week-planning-frenzy. Their table is as much a covered on paper as Orlando's, but it does feature a lot more glitter and printed out pictures. The latter show various buildings of JC over the last couple of decades and there are several portraits of stern looking men among them as well who, Bernard is sure, will very much approve of the glitter. He, at least, does when the girls' ask him for his aesthetic opinion on their project.

They are working on a poster for Sean's history class. Now, Bernard has a very specific view on his pupils' homework that is best summed up with 'don't ask, don't tell' – he doesn't ask whether they did it, and they don't tell him if they didn't. Sean, on the other hand, is apparently still teaching his classes in a way that means a lot more work, and the girls seem very keen not to disappoint him either.

It is a little sad, it has to be said, that their attention to detail when it comes to surrounding a picture of J.R.R. Tolkien with pink sparkles is not necessarily reflected in the accuracy of the bits and bobs of information they wrote onto their poster in calligraphy.

According to them (and apparently the internet, as their cited source is 'google.com'), Tolkien, a renowned professor in Oxnard, founded Jackson College in 1954 after an extended stay in Middle Earth. But it was because of the first headmaster, Peter Jackson, a Middle Earth native, who opened the school to all kinds of people – whether they may be blond, bare-footed, or dwarves ('Mr Hill, is it okay to say dwarves? It's not offensive or anything, is it?') - who made the school truly great by giving Jackson College not only its name but also its first motto.

'Not all those who wander are lost.'

Given the evidence before him, Bernard would normally beg to differ. However, it is Sunday, and he is not on duty. Also, the glitter is very fetching. So, he oohs and aahs, pats them on the back, and suggests they should show this to Mr Bloom next. Then he makes himself scarce.

***

On Monday, February, 27th, Craig gets called into Christopher's office. On any other day, this would be cause for a lot of wide-eyed chatter around the teaching staff's equivalent of the water cooler, the only functioning copy-machine. Because Craig doesn't just teach German at JC, he also embodies all of Germany's world-famous secondary virtues, such as punctuality, discipline, reliability, and subordination. At least according to Christopher, who hasn't ever seen Craig drunk or in a football stadium.

No one is particularly surprised that Craig is being summoned on this particular Monday, though.

Craig closes the door behind him and listens to Christopher's disappointed lecture on how he really expected better from him of all people. When he has finished, Craig straightens the stuffed parrot attached to his right shoulder, and his left eye, the one that is not covered by an eye patch, gives Christopher a level and calm look.

'I asked to be relieved of my duties for today, so I could fly to Cologne,' he argues reasonably, or as reasonably as a grown man dressed up as a pirate can. 'But you wouldn't let me. It's [Collop Monday](en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shrove_Monday), for heaven's sake.'

***

At breakfast, Orlando's default frown deepens when he sets his tray down next to Sean's.

Sean has bags under his eyes, and he is rasping rather than breathing whilst sipping from his tea and staring into the distance. He looks like shit.

'You look like shit', Orlando says with disapproval.

Sean doesn't elbow him, tell him to fuck off or deliberately sneeze into his cornflakes. He gives Orlando a hazy glance and sighs.

'Cheers, mate', he says. He makes it sound like Orlando didn't point out a simple truth but hurled stones at him. 

Orlando knows the reasons for all this, of course. Sean got soaking wet during football practice on Sunday, the parents of two of the kids in his house are getting divorced, which equals a lot of late-night-tear-drying, he locked heads with Christopher about the potential project-based-learning week. He is also old and a sentimental idiot who thinks the world will crumble if he isn't there to hold it together.

Orlando scoffs, shakes his head and eats his cornflakes. 

Over the course of the morning, he watches Sean's skin change its colour to resemble that of a dead fish. His rasps turn to coughs despite the herbal tea that Orlando orders Viggo to make him. When Christopher marches into the staff room, his sharp eyes searching the premises for Sean, Orlando walks past him and tells him that he is thinking about taking his philosophy A-level on a week-long field trip to a Buddhist monastery. Christopher promptly has an aneurysm and hisses at Orlando for five minutes straight until the next period start.

After morning lessons are over, Orlando walks up to Sean in the staff room. Sean's hazy eyes are now in good company of a light sheen of sweat on his face. With maybe a little too much force, Orlando puts the work sheets he just photocopied for Sean onto his messy table.

'Three things. First of, I caught Mo and Jellin from your tutor group skiving,'

Sean blinks tiredly but nods.

'All right. When?'

'Third period, art', Orlando says but when Sean leans forward to write it down, he shakes his head. 'That was just fyi. I already had them reorganizing Johnny's paint as punishment.'

Sean sighs again, this time a little less resigned.

'And the other two things? Is it about the project -'

Orlando cuts him off with another shake of his head.

'No, Christopher is just being an ignorant prick, he'll come around next week.'

'All right', Sean nods placidly. 

'The second thing is that I'm taking over your yard supervision after lunch', Orlando continues and switches on his favourite and most effective glare of death when Sean's lips part in an attempt of automatic protest. 'Shut up. Because the third thing is, you still look like shit.'

Sean's eyes, momentarily distracted by the neat stack of photocopies on his desk, look up at Orlando again. Orlando curls his upper lip. 

'I'm serious. You need to go away and lie down because the sight of you makes me depressed, mate.'

He crosses his arms in front of his chest and pointedly stares down at Sean until Sean gets up.

***


	3. March, April, May 2017

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> These are the bits and bobs from March, April, and May 2017. With some great bits in May written by LJ's / DW's Noalinnea <3

There are several strategies to conquer the ever growing stacks of coursework forming mountain ranges on one's desk. They vary a great deal and not just in terms of their efficiency and overall success.

Cate drinks wine when grading. It depends on the level of incomprehensibility which one she chooses. If her husband comes home and spots an almost empty bottle of Bordeaux on her desk, he backs away as quietly as he can.

Sean grades in his tracky bums. It used to be underpants but some people (and it wasn't just Orlando) pointed out to him that this was odd.

Orlando grades in the library. The smell of books calms him down. Gerry repeatedly advises against this location and says that it's not really the aroma of wisdom and knowledge filling the air but mildew and all kinds of other possibly deadly spores which Orlando inhales. Orlando thinks that Gerry is just afraid of another bookshelf collapsing on his head.

Dom repeatedly tricked his Sixth formers into grading his first formers' coursework. When asked why 'his' handwriting varied so much in the commentary, Dom told them that he was suffering from a medical condition that changed his hand depending on the level of bullshit he was commenting on.

Bernard grades in his bed. He used to fall asleep at his desk and develop bad neck cramps, so his relocation is actually very clever.

Dominic listens to Wagner when he grades or does the prep-work for the experiments in his classes. Subsequently, the sound of the Valkyrie fills the entire school with foreboding.

Karl? Karl never does any grading because he is smart and teaches P.E., which means yelling at children to shift their arses and sit in the pub while his idiot mates bleed from their eyes and want to stab themselves with their pens. 

***

The inside of the staff kitchen's fridge has seen many a battle. Especially since Orlando started buying the really good Dannon products...

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


***

'Now I get why Andrew pretended he was too busy to come', Sean says slowly.

Cate, who walked into the bar in front of him, turns around without slowing down.

'Are you insinuating that my husband is lying about work?'

Sean weighs his head from side to side as his eyes scan the place.

'Just saying that I'm not sure what I'm supposed to do here.'

'Eat cheese, drink wine, of course', she says, like he is being a bit thick now.

The expression on Sean's face doesn't really change as he looks around the place. There has to be some secret furniture store that caters exclusively to pretentious wine bars. Cate hooks her arm through his as if she fears he might back out and slowly pulls him along.

'You like cheese and wine, Sean.'

'I do. I don't see why we can't have those on my couch, though.'

She picks up a bite-sized pieces of cheese on a toothpick from a small display on the bar.

'Don't worry, you're still a real Northern lad, even if you go one Friday without a pint at your local.' 

She pops the cheese into her mouth.

'That's not it', he grunts, deliberately thickening his accent, though. 

Chuckling, she pats his arm before she pulls him along towards a group of bar tables, already surrounded by several people. Just before they are within hearing distance, she nods at two women in particular and leans closer to him.

'That's Julie and Sophia, fairly new acquaintances of mine', she says with a low voice. 'And what do you know, Julie is an avid football fan, and Sophie knows everything there is to know about the Napoleonic Wars.'

Slowing down their walk, Sean looks at Cate, his left brow slowly rising. She smiles and for a second time pats his arm.

'Don't say I never get you anything. Aren't you glad I let you pay for my wine and cheese?'

***

It's Saturday morning, 9 a.m., and normally Orlando would still be in bed, preferably Katy's. Technically, it's his weekend off. However, due to Sean succumbing to the sniffles on Monday (Orlando doesn't care how much of a war buff Sean is in theory; there is no way he'd have survived even a day in Wellington's army), Orlando made Sean switch places with him. That is how Sean is probably snoring on Cate's sofa at the moment, whereas Orlando is on his way to Johnny for punishment follow-through. 

Because of course he would rather spend his morning in bed with his criminally attractive girlfriend, but if there is one rule you need to stick to if you don't want the little piranhas to eat you alive, then it's this: If you dish out punishment (say, for attempting to steal a gallon of glue from Johnny 's supply for undoubtedly nefarious purposes), then you have to see it through.

It's either a credit to Robert's, Maria's, and Jason's contrition or to their fear of Orlando that they obviously arrived early. He finds them present when he walks into the mess that is the backstage slash storage area of the auditorium amidst the remnants of last summer's medieval fair. All three of them look at him and Orlando feels a little satisfied by the looks on their faces - no sign of contrition there, but definitely the other thing. Robert (with a crown on his head) and Jason (unsuccessfully trying to hide an axe behind his back) actually look like they are contemplating running away. Not that the expression on Maria's face is more relaxed. But the fact that her head and both her hands are trapped in the wooden stocks makes it in fact impossible for her to escape.

Orlando rubs a hand over his forehead, thinks that he could be having sex right now, and curses Sean and his damsel'ish constitution. Then he asks the boys whether they are planning to release Robert's girlfriend any time soon or whether they are expecting him to supply them with tomatoes and other rotten fruit. 

***

So, Eric lost Viggo. Usually, this isn't something that worries him. He once mentioned it to Karl when in the morning Viggo and he left for a walk on the beach and Eric returned on his own in the afternoon. Eric told him how Viggo was still picking seashells and contemplating becoming a fisherman. Karl gave him one of his looks, like the one when he has to do endurance training with the chubby first years. Then he said yeah, that happens to him as well sometimes when he takes Boris for a walk. He also suggested putting Viggo on a leash.

Anyway, Eric isn't worried about this because kinda like Eric digresses in his own head sometimes (okay, quite a few times), Viggo wanders off and forgets coming back. Normally, Eric wouldn't go looking for him unless he was bored because hey, it's Viggo and he always finds his way back to Eric. However, they went for a walk in the Dales this morning and while Eric was merrily stepping into puddles of muddy rainwater, Viggo was quoting poetry and refused to wear the hood of his jacket.

So, when Eric sends Viggo out to fetch food from JC's kitchen because he kind of forgot to buy some yesterday, Eric waits for ten minutes until he goes after him. He first searches in the kitchen for obvious reasons and also because he is starving. Viggo isn't there, and he isn't at Sean's either, and Eric decides that he will check the common rooms next. Mostly because it's still raining outside and his ham-and-cheese sandwich would get soggy if he went outside now.

In the first two rooms he checks, there is no Viggo; the first one is in fact empty, the second one occupied by Mikael and Jason, and the three of them nonverbally agree to never speak of what Eric accidentally saw when he walked in without knocking. 

There is no such danger in the third one; the door is open and Eric can hear chattering and laughter even when he is only on the staircase. 

The sofa and armchairs by the windows are occupied by a bunch of sixth formers with their limbs all over the place. Then there is Orlando, and what with his leatherbound book, the comfy chair by the fireplace and his elbow patches, Eric kind of wants to ask him where his toffees and his pipe are. But that's when Viggo spots him, grins and waves. 

'We could really use your help here, mate!'

Eric stuffs the last bite of his sandwich into his mouth and parks his butt on the couch next to Viggo.

'What are we doing?' he asks.

Two of the three first formers on their knees around the coffee table ignore his question. The third one – Eric thinks he should know her name, he definitely knows her crooked pair of pink-framed glasses – looks up at him.

'It's a puzzle, Mr. Bana.'

'It's gonna be [Hogwarts](https://www.amazon.com/Aquarius-Potter-Hogwarts-Jigsaw-1000-Piece/dp/B00XPHXLL0)', adds the boy with the mop of unruly dark hair (Eric wants to say Harry, but that's probably not it).

Eric hums at so much earnest determination. Different from his three playmates, Viggo momentarily has lost interest in the puzzle and studies Eric's face instead. Eric lets him, but rubs the back of his hand over his mouth after a couple of seconds.

'Do I have mustard on my face?'

Viggo shakes his head, grins and still doesn't look away.

'We're doing the corners first', says the Harry-stand-in. 

'It's 1000 pieces', explains the girl.

'Actually, it's about 994', Viggo corrects her. This of course does get him the attention of all three.

'There are pieces missing?' asks the girl, doing a very quick subtraction and coming up short.

'And you didn't tell us?' asks Harry, sort of scandalized.

'What happened to them?' asks the third kid, still without looking up from the neat rows of assorted pieces.

Viggo rests his elbows on his knees as he leans over conspiratorially.

'Don't tell him I told you, but Mr Bloom ate them.' 

Eric is doing his very best wing-man-to-messing-with-ten-year-olds facial expression, but the pink-glasses girl seems unconvinced anyway.

'Why does he eat puzzle pieces, Mr Mortensen?.'

'Well,' says Viggo and leaves it at that and starts to collect corner pieces in in his palm. 

The three kids seem unconvinced. Eric puts that down to the fact that they don't actually know Orlando who is unofficially prohibited from teaching first form because he frightens them.

'There are six pieces missing?' repeats Harry with accusation. If he were taller than three feet, Eric would fear for Viggo's physical well-being right about now.

'Well, there are 994 left', Viggo says reasonably. 'You could look at it as a glass half-full kind of thing.'

'99.4 percent full even,' says the third kid with the bobble hat. Eric likes that kid.

'What if Hedwig's face is missing??' demands Harry, gets up from his knees and actually stamps a foot down. 'HUH?' He balls his hands into fists, stomps his foot down again and storms off.

'Whoa', Eric says.

'That's all right,' says the pink-glasses girl, scoots over and places a hand on Eric's knee. 'Jeremy does that all the time.'

Eric watches ~~Harry~~ Jeremy make his way across the common room and kick the wall next to the fireplace. He leans close to Viggo.

'We have a miniature Bloom in first form.'

'I know, mate', Viggo whispers back, sounding equally gleeful and disturbed.

'What's a Miniature Bloom?' asks the pink-glasses girl.

'We could make a new one', says the bobble-hat-kid. 'Out of cardboard.'

He has still not looked up from sorting corner pieces and is still focusing on the really important stuff here. Eric nods with all the earnestness he can muster while ten feet from them Orlando gives his hot-headed-mini-me a stern talking to about kicking walls.

'We absolutely should', Viggo says, his gaze following Eric's. 'Maybe without the snark and the sarcasm and the blasphemy, though.'

'You are weird', says the bobble-hat-kid.

'What's a blasphemy?' asks the girl.

Viggo ignores them both and puts the corner pieces he collected down on the pile. He starts picking out predominantly black ones, humming the theme of the Harry Potter movies.

Eric? He leans back on the sofa and watches mini-Orlando stomp the floor while normal-sized-Orlando growls at him for a bit more. He could do with another sandwich, but other than that? It is a pretty perfect way to spend a rainy Sunday afternoon. 

***

On March, 6th, 10.03 a.m. six things happen pretty much at the same time:

Sean convinces Christopher to let them go ahead with his and Orlando's idea of a special week of project-based-learning. By offering to shut down Orlando's plan of 'raiding monasteries like we were vikings' aka Mr Bloom's suggestion for a staff trip.

Gerry and Dom have a very intense discussion about dinosaurs. And vampires. Dinosaur-vampires, really.

In the gym, West has a staring match with Karl's dog. Boris loses.

During a free period, Eric makes a paper finger puppet version of Orlando. Then one of Viggo, so he can pitch them against one another because Vig will definitely appreciate that.

Orlando frees a first former who somehow got his tie trapped in the door to the library. 

Cate teaches French. Because this is a school.

***

Gerry and Eric have a standing date on Tuesday mornings; neither of them has lessons during the first two periods and that happens to coincide with one of Johnny's drama classes. Gerry isn't sure whose belter idea it was – probably his – for them to commandeer Johnny's classroom, but fact is that the third formers who taking drama now get a proper education in stand-up comedy instead of Johnny's odd method acting workshops where you have to pretend you are a rudder or a bottle of rum or something.

Gerry has been practicing his newest character under the shower already, and personally he thinks he makes for a very convincing talking pineapple. So, he is looking forward to assorted-fruits-lesson when he knocks on Eric's door. Nothing happens, though, and it is suspiciously quiet inside. Gerry doesn't walk away, however. Thanks to that unfortunate incident a couple of weeks back and thanks to West's past as a catburglar / international spy, he knows how to pick a lock now and lets himself in.

Eric hasn't just pretended he wasn't in, the way West does it sometimes, though Gerry has no idea why he bothers, it's not like Gerry lets him get away with it. No, Eric isn't sitting on his couch, pretending to be deaf; he is sitting nowhere in fact and Gerry even has to switch the light on. Frowning, Gerry checks his watch to see whether it's maybe only 5 in the morning or something (it isn't), then he gets momentarily distracted by a bowl of M&Ms that only contains red and green ones.

Chocolate-covered peanuts seem to be doing wonders for his hearing (he should incorporate that into his bio lessons) because after decimating the amount of M&Ms, Gerry suddenly hears the sound of faint snores drifting into the living room.

It seems to be the fate of Pete-the-Pinapple to have to kick the Bana-Banana out of bed. Popping another handful of predominantly red M&Ms into his mouth and then taking the bowl with him, Gerry makes his way to the bedroom, following the sawing sounds.

Wee bit of a misconception there, though. The snores don't come from Eric. Standing in the doorframe, Gerry sees that Eric is currently physical incapable of snoring. He possibly is dead. Gerry can't be sure about that because he can't actually see Eric's head or anything of the upper half of his body. All of that is covered by a duvet, and Eric's PJ-clad legs sticking out from under it don't move. Well, if Eric is indeed dead, then there is no doubt as to who is responsible for this, considering the only possible culprit is right there, snoring like nobody's business. Different to Eric in his pyjamas, Viggo is fully dressed. He hasn't even bothered to kick of his boots before he collapsed across Eric, atop the covers.

For a moment, Gerry remains standing there. Partly to check whether he has to call an ambulance. Partly because it's actually rather cute to watch, these two there; kinda like monkeys in the zoo, if you dressed them up and shot them in the arse with tranquilizers. When Eric's foot twitches and Viggo rolls a bit down, his upper body now more or less hanging across where Gerry reckons Eric's stomach might be, Gerry decides that he doesn't need to call the school nurse. 

Pineapple Pete will have to give a solo performance though.

***

  
  
  
  


Also, the next one has been deemed NSFW by Gerry who claims to have been traumatized by "this sort of smut in the workplace, honestly, Bana, it's disgusting, your fingers should be ashamed of themselves".

***

'… so I told the cashier that there was no need, I could pack my own bags, which thank fuck I could, I'd really have made an ass out of myself otherwise, and – Vig?'

Eric stops his rambling monologue when he enters the bathroom. It's Thursday, so he expects Viggo to occupy his tub of course. The tub is filled to the brim and Eric suspects that Viggo is in there as well. 

'Hey Vig', Eric says, temporarily depositing his Tesco bags in the washbasin, 'I hope you're training for our diving trip next summer in there.'

Eric watches how slowly, kind of like the monster of Loch Ness, Viggo's head appears. His hair sticks to his forehead and he is wearing a crown of foam. He wipes his hand over his face and blinks water from his eyes.

'What diving trip, mate?'

Eric shrugs. 

'We're doing a diving trip in summer.'

'We are?'

'Yeah. Look at coral reefs and sharks.'

'Australia or South Africa.'

'Please. Like that's even a question.'

'Yeah, okay.'

'Maybe we'll skip the reefs and just do the sharks.'

Viggo nods and submerges again. This time, his feet make an appearance at the other end of the tub. Eric starts unpacking the bag that predominantly contains bathroom stuff. He managed to buy both window cleaner _and_ condoms, and that even without writing a list. He is pretty proud of himself.

Viggo reemerges. When he gestures at the bag in Eric's hand, he causes a small tidal wave.

'Did you bring snacks? Or did you get waylaid by Gerry again?'

Eric pulls a face at the memory of that. Being tackled to the ground is never a pleasant experience, but when it happens not on the rugby field (where you kind of expect it) but in the hallway and you land on a a bag filled with tuna-cans, it is quite painful.

Viggo still waits patiently, the foam crown slowly sliding down the left side of his head.

'Food yeah, snacks no. I restocked the freezer.' He pauses for a moment, then frowns. 'I was telling you about it just now – remember the cashier bit?'

Viggo shakes his head, causing the water to ripple.

'Nope, just heard distorted sounds, kinda like a tuba under water. I'm up to three minutes.'

'That's pretty impressive, mate', Eric says and gives Viggo a thumbs up with his free hand. Then he holds up the Tesco bag. 'I did get you something else, though.'

He holds the bag over the bathtub, and Viggo grumbles at him when he has to sit up to reach it. His expression immediately brightens again (like Eric knew it would) when he peeks inside.

'They were on sale,' Eric says happily.

Viggo gives him a toothy smile and then lines up all five versions of Redox bath soak on the rim of the tub. 

'Oh, actually –' Eric says and pulls a bag of tortilla crisps out of the last bag in the washbasin. Viggo, however, doesn't even look up.

So, Eric sits down on the toilet seat and stuffs the first handful of crisps into his mouth, while Viggo debates whether or not combining waterlily and eucalyptus is a very good or a very bad idea (the latter, as it turns out). Then for the next hour or so proceeds to test pretty much all possible combinations of bath soaks while Eric eats and plans their summer vacation.

***

It's Friday night, so it's date night for pretty much everyone. We're not gonna talk about the pupils' part of this because first of all most of the awkward pre-hooking-up shenanigans happens in the 'Prissy Elf', the so called pub (it's really more of a coffee place) JC's boarders hang out in. And no one (okay, Orlando, but he is interestingly apparently both a masochist _and_ a sadist) voluntarily walks into dark rooms in the school without loudly announcing themselves beforehand.

Anyway.

As for the teachers and this particular Friday, the second in March (the first with actually decent weather):

Bernard's wife is out of town, so Bernard has Harry over, and Harry brings wine. Naturally this somehow ends with their conversation being carried out in Latin (Harry) and Shakespeare quotes (Bernard). Marianne, when she calls to tell Bernard to make pot roast for tomorrow, is only a little surprised to be on the receiving end of sonnet 18.

Dominic is on a date with a woman whom we know nothing else about (but apparently she is into blokes with very intense and not at all scary eyes) at an undisclosed location. They have reached desert when Dominic's phone rings. The anonymous woman must be really into him because she stays, even though Dominic spends the next twenty minutes talking to Gerry who somehow got himself and his little group of nature-enthusiastic third formers lost in the woods. She eats his crème brulée while he explains to his idiot friend how to operate google maps.

Karl and Boris win 67 quid by destroying peasants at darts at the 'Prancing Pony'. Karl does the dart throwing, Boris specializes on glaring intimidatingly.

Viggo and Eric have the Falcon washed and Eric compensates the stress that this means to him by ordering three Happy Meals for himself at Mickey D's immediately after. Eric is happy, so Viggo is happy. Especially when they get very, very odd looks at the next traffic lights due to the fact that Viggo is wearing a Batgirl mask.

Orlando is out with Katy. There is food, dancing, sex, and a twenty minute rant about Kierkegaard. Not necessarily in that order. For some reason, there is also knitting.

Instead of drying tears, Sean is the cause of them in his house's common room. He loves his kids, but they all bloody suck at WOW. Then it all goes downhill of course, when (slightly high on war endorphins) Sean agrees to a match of Mario Kart 8. He gets utterly, _utterly_ humiliated, and a bunch of wide-eyed first formers learn a whole new set of vocabulary.

***

'Hiya mate!'

'Gerry, please tell me you're not lost in the woods again.'

'No!'

'Please tell me you're not not-lost and on a tree because a fox looked at you the wrong way.'

'West, for God's sake, it's eleven in the morning and you're drunk already?'

'Excuse me?'

'You joking about dangerous, possibly disease carrying woodland creatures? Clear sign of you being really mullered.'

'I'm not drunk, Gerry. I'm in the middle of – you know, it doesn't matter, but I'm not drunk. And “woodland creatures”? How do they let you teach biology?'

'Mate, it's not the biology department I'm having issues with. And what's up with that, actually. Why don't you even ask why I'm calling, huh? Rude.'

'I didn't know that was part of our routine. Usually, I just have to answer the phone and you do all the talking.'

'Yeah, well, if you hadn't interrupted. I just wanted to tell you that I found that helium that you lost.'

'I didn't lose it. It was stolen from the lab. The kids in this school are predominantly future career criminals.'

'I don't know about the career, mate. I did catch them. If I get ever get fired –'

'”When”.'

'What?'

'Nothing.'

'Anyway, if I ever wanted a career change, I could become a private detective. Like Humphrey Bogart.'

'He wasn't a private detective, he was an actor.'

'Your bleak outlook on life depresses me.'

'Uh-huh.' 

'But as per usual, you're right. I reckon I'm more like Lauren Bacall.'

'I'll just pretend you didn't say that. - Where is my helium?'

'A great deal of it is in Ralph Geller's lungs, I reckon.'

'Geller? That thieving little shit.'

'I don't think he was the one stealing it. I think it was Jennifer. He's kinda sweet on her and she dared him to inhale as much of it as he could.'

'Figures.'

'Huh?'

'Figures that all the kids in this school grow up to be weirdos. Consider who's raising them.'

'You mean, like, you? Hate to break it to you, West, but you're live-in, too, now. Stop shifting the blame.'

'Yeah. I need to find a new flat.'

'Sure you do, mate.'

***

As per usual Katy drops Orlando off at the village's bus stop in the late afternoon. She hates the too narrow road leading up to Jackson College, and Orlando likes to keep his private life private anyway. So they kissed goodbye at the ever-romantic petrol station on the A64, and Katy ushers Orlando out of her Fiat 500 rather unceremoniously before driving through a puddle and leaving his slacks somewhat damp.

He pulls a face at that and texts her 'thanks for that' as he turns right to take the long way round because the weather is nice and he doesn't have to be anywhere. The path he takes leads past a couple of pastures and through the small forest – all so very boring, if you ask the kids, and filled with bad memories since JC's P.E. teachers use it for their endurance training. As Orlando sidesteps a couple of puddles (he doesn't know why, really, since his slacks are a mess anyway), a brief muscle-memory prompted flashback has him hearing Karl's bellowing, urging him and Dom and all their other classmates on to 'shift their arses, for fuck's sake'. He scowls at a few cows who stare back, unimpressed, but then the sunshine and Katy's responding text ('You're sure welcome for all the sex') remind him that it's Sunday afternoon, and his life could be quite a lot worse.

He doesn't believe in such bullshit as fate, of course, so yeah, it is nothing but a coincidence that he allowed himself to think this mere moments before rounding a corner on the meandering path. The bench next to the crooked oak tree is occupied by a teenage girl, and even though she leans forwards, with her elbows on her knees and her face buried in her hands, there is no denying that she is one of JC's. Even if Orlando didn't recognize Emma Redding by her hair alone – the blue dye-job and the undercut are pretty distinctive even to a less trained observer –, her school jumper would have given her away.

Orlando's feet automatically slowed down the moment he spotted her, but even though the leaves under his leather-soled boots make quite the noise, she doesn't look up, and her shoulders quiver. It's a tell-tale sign for that kind of sobbing you only are capable of when you are either very, very tired and equally emotional, or when you are seventeen.

Orlando's had a good weekend; simple, straightforward fun with Katy, just the kind of thing that proves why it is so much better to be an adult than a puberty ridden mess of a half-baked human being. 

About ten feet from the bench, his feet stop walking.

Emma is still not looking up, and he can hear her sobs, even though they are muffled by her palms.

He knows what Viggo would do; he'd crouch down on the leaves, his bad knee forgotten until the crisis is over (and then he'd complain to Eric about it for days), and he'd place his hand on Emma's knee or her shoulder and murmur something soothingly, and it would probably break the spell. Orlando hates touching his pupils and hates being touched by them. The only effect Viggo's words ever had on him were to rile him up.

Emma's shoulders are still shaking, but she's quietened down now. The tips of her fingers, clipped black paint on her nails, dig into the skin of her forehead.

It seems like the worst is over, the snotty tears and the loud kind of crying. But this usually just means that there just aren't any tears left, and the dulling effect of exhaustion is only temporary. Orlando wishes he didn't know that, just like he wishes Sean was here. But he does, and Sean isn't.

'What's up, Emma?' he asks, and immediately Emma freezes. Even though he doesn't mean it as an accusation – it's not her fault that she is seventeen –, he probably makes it sound like one anyway.

Emma sniffles loudly before straightening up and wiping her face with the sleeve of her jumper. All that does is smear watery snot over her left cheek.

'What are you doing here?' she asks back and sounds more angry than embarrassed. 

He studies her for a moment. Her nose is red and her heavy mascara an absolute mess, her hands have curled into fists within the safety of her sleeves as she stares back.

'Walking home,' he answers. 'What about you?'

Her jaw clenches, and her red-rimmed eyes narrow.

'Figure skating,' she spits out sarcastically. 'What's it look like?'

He doesn't smile, even though he wants to.

'Looks like you're sitting on a park bench crying your eyes out', he says instead. 'Want to tell me what that's about?'

Her eyes narrow even further, but when he doesn't look away, she wipes her sleeve over her face again.

'No offense, Mr Bloom', she mutters. 'But I really don't.'

She didn't tell him to piss off. But he knows it's because she knows he'd have her in detention for that, not because she doesn't want him to.

When he steps up to the bench, she glares up at him for a moment, her entire body telegraphing that he isn't welcome. He ignores it, waits for her to scoot over, so he can sit down. After ten seconds, she does, and he sits.

He still has his hands in his pockets, his left clenching and unclenching around a spare paper napkin from KFC where he and Katy stopped for a midnight snack last night. The sun will be going down in half an hour. Emma has crossed her arms in front of her chest and stares into the sky with unfocused eyes.

He knows she doesn't want to talk to him, won't, if he doesn't force her to. She's been in his house for five years, and he knows who her mates are, knows who she's going out with, knows her family history. He can take an educated guess what this is about. But that's not the point. He isn't good at this. Emotional outbreaks. It's a fact that bothers him on a professional level, like West would get mad at himself if he couldn't successfully do one of his chemistry experiments in front of his class, he supposes.

When the sky is changing colours, its blue turning into a greyish pink, Emma sniffs again, and when she gets up from the bench her motions are stiff, like she is cold.

'I'm going back to JC', she informs him, and even her voice is stiff. 

He nods and gets to his feet as well. She brushes blue strands of hair behind her ears before her hands disappear in the sleeves again.

'You can stop with the suicide watch now, Mr Bloom,' she says angrily.

He nods as well, and she narrows her eyes when he pulls his hand out of the pocket of his coat, holding out the crumpled KFC napkin.

'What's that for, eh?' she spits out, even though she takes it, as if only now she realizes he caught her crying.

He turns around, back to where he came from; the way back and through the village definitely not the path she'll be choosing.

'You've got snot on your cheek. Might want to do something about that', he states as he starts walking. 'Dinner's in 45 minutes, Emma. I'll see you there.'

***

Eric's on his way to the kitchen for a little in-between-meals snack when he spots Orlando and Viggo standing in the door frame to the big common room. Both of them have their arms crossed in front of their chests and all their attention is focused on what's happening inside.

Eric stops behind them, his hands landing on Orlando's right and Viggo's left shoulder. Without averting their gazes, Orlando immediately shrugs it off, Viggo turns into the touch.

'What's happening here? Brawl?'

Orlando shakes his head, Viggo chuckles and gestures. Inside, there is a cluster of first formers swarming around a table. A chubby kid from Sean's house wears a party hat on his head and has a ridiculously large parcel standing in front of him. Sweets are spilling out of it.

'It's Mick's birthday,' Viggo says. 

'His parents own a candy store', Orlando adds.

The kids scream 'happy birthday' unisono, then descend on the sweets.

'Like swarming locusts', Viggo says.

'The sugar is gonna keep them up till way after midnight', Orlando adds.

Eric is both exceptionally happy that it's going to be Sean who'll have to try and put them to bed and exceptionally disappointed that _he_ wasn't invited to the sugar-rush-party.

***

Viggo flops down on the couch in the staff room with enough energy to nearly bounce Sean off. Sean hastily covers the mug he is holding with his palm to keep his tea from spilling.

'You look tired', Viggo states with a smile.

'I know that', Sean responds, wiping his hand more or less discreetly on a cushion. 'I own a mirror and Orlando –'

Viggo snickers.

'You own Orlando? Can you go and put him down then? As a favour to me?'

Sean scoffs and sips from his mug.

'Orlando told me my face looked like an alcoholic's liver.'

'Charming, your best mate.'

'Yeah, I know how to pick them, don't I?' Sean agrees peaceably and nudges Viggo's knee with his own. 

For a moment, they fall silent, Sean drinks his tea, Viggo chews on the nail of his thumb, and they both watch how West very nearly sets fire to Gerry's beard by holding his lighter too close to it.

'You think he ever got it certified?' Sean asks, sounding mildly interested. 'That he's a pyro, I mean?'

Viggo shrugs and moves to his other thumb.

'Everyone needs a hobby.' He chuckles, suddenly, like it surprises him as well. 'Hey, did I tell you, I substituted in fifth form last week, and –'

'Did they set you on fire as well?'

Viggo's cackle is loud enough to turn heads, and for a second time, Gerry's beard is in real danger.

***

March, 14th and March, 15th are traditionally the days on which the school nurse wishes she'd listened to her parents and become a florist. She likes her job, she really does, but on these two days? Let's just say that there is only a limited amount of times you can have pupils throwing up in your rooms before it gets really old.

For the first three years of her working here, she had no idea what it was about these two days that made so many children (and teachers) sick. Then, in April of her third year, she happened to mention it in the dining hall and that happened to be within earshot of Dom Monaghan. Forever helpful (he has a massive crush on her, or at least his fantasies of her in a sexy and wildly inappropriate nurse's uniform; she knows because he repeatedly tells her so), Dom informed her about two related facts:

1\. March, 14th is Pi day, the day to celebrate the ratio of a circle's circumference to its diameter.

2\. Eric Bana is an excellent baker _and_ head of the maths department in Jackson College.

Because boarding schools does strange things to people (she is sure there must be long term medical studies about this kind of thing) and apparently forms a very odd attachment to celebrating homonyms, Bana incorporated Pi day into the school's curriculum. 

On March, 14th, every year, he and his classes commander the kitchen and bake a lot of pies. A LOT of pies. Which they then proceed to eat, constantly calculating the changing surface and perimeter, until there are only crumbs left and they feel sick to the stomach. Hence the massive amount of green-faced pupils and overtime for the nurse on this day and the following.

On March, 15th, 2017, the school nurse tends to a very poorly third year and before she sends him back to class, she gives him the following note to pass on:

'Dear Mr Bana,

next year, I demand at least one pie as payment for my suffering. I like strawberries and cherry.

Cheers,

E.Lilly'

 

***

For the first time since pretty much forever, Sean is supervising football practice without getting soaking wet in the process. In fact, the weather is quite lovely, and the sun is shining with an intensity causing Sean to suspect that the flush on half of his girls' faces isn't exertion but the dawn of sunburn.

He is just done shouting at Mara O'Riley for flooring Jessie Quirke (and silently thinks that rugby would be much more suited for her) when Orlando steps up next to him. The onslaught of sunshine makes him squint, causing him to look like he vehemently disapproves of spring. About half of Sean's regular team is from Orlando's house alone, so he frequently joins Sean on the sidelines to watch them practice. His gray cardigan and neatly pressed slacks offer a stark contrast to Sean's sports gear that might or might not have been the height of fashion ca. 1991.

They chat a bit, watch for a while; Sean yells instructions and Orlando shows unabashed favoritism, entirely disqualifying him as ref.

Eventually Sean allows the girls a five minutes break, and most of them toddle off to the benches on the sideline for a drink and a quick sit-down. The sole exception are Mara and Emma Redding; the former takes over from Jessie as goalie, Emma shoots ball after ball at her like she's trying to kill her.

When Sean looks at Orlando, he finds him intently watching this, the deep lines on his forehead not just from squinting now.

'I've been meaning to talk to you about her', Sean says. 'Emma, I mean.'

Orlando transfers his scowl to Sean.

'What about her?'

'She called me a bloody moron this morning during A-level. Stormed out when I told her to mind her tongue.'

For a moment, Orlando's gaze remains on him, then briefly darts back to the blue-haired girl on the pitch.

'Were you _being_ a bloody moron?' he asks. There isn't even a touch of irony in his voice, but when Sean chuckles in response, his lips twitch.

'I was being quite brilliant, cheers', Sean replies laughingly. 'But you know that's not the issue.'

Orlando grunts.

'Hm, cause I don't know that because _I'm_ a moron.'

For a moment, they watch the two girls practicing. It's only thanks to Mara's reflexes causing her to dive out of the way of the ball rather than into it, that she doesn't get decapitated by Emma's next ferocious kick.

'I heard Emma's dad's business went belly up a month or so ago', Sean says.

'Yeah, it did', Orlando confirms.

After that, he falls silent for long enough for Sean to think that this is all he is going to say. The muscles around his eyes twitch and he raises his hand as if to rub it over his face, but aborts the gesture at the last moment. 

'She's also failing maths and had a falling out with Maisie over Joel last week.'

'Joel Rivers?' Sean asks, not hiding the surprise in his voice. 'He's -' He doesn't finish his sentence, but nevertheless it causes Orlando's lips to twitch.

'He _is_ a bloody moron, yeah.'

'There's no accounting for taste, huh. The heart wants what the heart wants.'

Orlando doesn't make a retching sound at that, but Sean knows it's only because there are pupils within earshot.

'I can have a chat with her', Sean offers. 'Should get her to apologize for this morning anyway.'

This time, Orlando's hand does reach his face, and he rubs it over its jaw as if that might relieve some of the perpetual tension there. He shakes his head.

'Nah, you're all right. I'll do it after you've finished here. She's got nothing on till dinner after this.'

'You know the exact timetable of every kid in your house?' Sean asks with a smile, even though he knows it to be true. 'Impressive.'

'I can do without your mockery', Orlando replies, eyes and thoughts already with Emma again. 'Not all of us have a kind of gut-feeling that never steers them wrong.'

Sean chuckles.

'And I can do without _your_ mockery', he says, without heat though.

Orlando's eyes land on him again, their gaze serious and without even a hint of humour.

'I wasn't mocking you. You know that perfectly well.'

Sean should be used to be slapped in the face with affection like that; Orlando's compliments always have been as direct and unceremonious as his insults. 

The girls' five minutes are up, and not unlike the hordes of Genghis Khan they invade the pitch once more.

'A bit of two man weave now, all right?' Sean bellows across the field, and the girls immediately scatter.

'Well, I'm off', Orlando says with a nod at Sean, then shouts, 'Kill them dead!' to his half of the team, and, lowering his voice once more, finishes, 'Cheers for the heads up on Emma.'

Sean nods, eyes on the players.

'Sure. Come by later, tell me how it turned out, if you – Mara, for Christ's sake, I said _weave_ , not bloody bulldoze!!'

***

Some weeks are more exhausting than others, he knows that. It's just bad fucking luck, one shitty thing coming right after the next, and one by one, he shrugs them off. He knows that as well. Still, he has a sore shoulder from all the shrugging, now that Friday finally comes around.  
At least he's still irritated with himself because of it – because fuck him, if he'd drown in self-pity and think this is more than what it is. It's not a proper dung heap even, in the greater scheme of things; he has got about the same amount to be annoyed as he would've, if he'd stepped into a pile of chihuahua shit, all things considered. 

What's he gonna do to scrape that metaphorical pile of crap off the sole of his boot, to get rid of that chip that's taken up temporary residence on his shoulder apparently, and (while he is at it) get the part of his brain that is responsible for metaphors and similes to shot itself?

In the shower, he decides to give himself three minutes. 

Three minutes to be irrationally annoyed at the world at large, at idiot parents (his own or his kids', it all comes down to the same thing anyway), at insensitive colleagues, at time-consuming paperwork and shitty lessons given, at himself for being disproportionally irritated. 

Three minutes because that's exactly the time it takes for him to load up his washing machine with this week's dirty laundry (and how's that for an overused metaphor. Still, brain, shoot yourself.). 

He shoves the dispenser shut, starts the machine and will have clean boxers in an hour; so that's three minutes not entirely wasted.

It's thirty seconds more that do the trick – try and feel sorry for yourself and your first-world-woes while having to look at your own face in the mirror. It's properly pathetic that it _does_ take as long as thirty seconds, to be honest, and the mild disgust that takes over his face? Well, that's definitely the better option.

He gets dressed again, puts his watch back on (it's only a quarter to ten), slips a paperback into the pocket of his coat. While he's on the stairs, he texts Sean – 'Headed to the Pony. Pint?'. Not that he himself is gonna have one because fucking hell, he is a maudlin drunk, he's even a maudlin I-only-had-one-lager. What he's gonna do is be grateful that it's March, and it's still chilly outside at night, so when he'll arrive at the pub, his nose will be cold and his head will be clear. He'll sit down at the bar, and he'll be made fun of for ordering a coke. There'll be football on the telly in the corner, and he'll have P.G. Wodehouse to keep him company if Sean shouldn't turn up.

Sean does, of course, like he would ever turn down the offer of a pint. He sits down next to Orlando, eats most of Orlando's crisps and bitches about United's (well-deserved, fuck off, Sean) victory against Rostof for twenty minutes, just because it annoys Orlando. He tells Orlando about the date he's had with a woman that is blatantly made up, considering he's changing her name from 'Judy' to 'July' every other sentence. And he tells Orlando how he's thinking of switching to semi synthetic oil for his BMW. 

'Thoughts on that, Lando?' 

Orlando laughs in his face, calls him a muppet and feels less like a soap opera extra again.

***

When Viggo gets ready to leave, it is too early for anyone else to be up. Anyone sane, leastwise, because _he_ is going for a run with Karl and isn't even sure how that happened.

Sure, the sun is up, or as good as, and it's going to be a lovely day. But it's Saturday, and sleeping should be the only valid option here. As demonstrated by Eric who lies face down on Viggo's couch and whose snores woke Viggo even before his alarm clock had the chance. 

Viggo sits down on the coffee table, and while struggling to tie his shoe in the semi-darkness, he listens to Eric change from snoring to mumbling something about egg rolls in his sleep and hum happily after. It's exactly the kind of odd semi-erotic random food dream Viggo could be having right now, if Karl wasn't waiting for him.

Again, Eric murmurs something and has moved on to croissants now as he shifts on the sofa. He snuggles up to his makeshift pillow that is actually Viggo's tracksuit jacket. His happy-mumble turns into a somewhat annoyed grumble when Viggo grips the sleeve of it, dangling from the side of the sofa, and tries to extract it from under him. It is a futile endeavour, of course, and Viggo leaves the flat wearing one of JC's jumpers instead.

When he comes back – sweaty and seriously-it's-already-nine-in-the-morning-now-whyyy – the sofa is empty. It's only after Viggo had a quick shower and returns to the living room, that he notices that Eric hasn't gotten very far. He's slouched in the armchair closest to the kitchen, a mostly empty bowl of cereals in his lap. He's also wearing Viggo's jacket which is a little too small for him and also inside out, and he is fast asleep. He murmurs 'pecan pie' when Viggo frees the bowl from his grasp, and Viggo can hear him start up snoring again when in the kitchen he fills the bowl with fresh milk and frosted flakes for himself.

Viggo flops down on the sofa and props his feet (the right sporting a blister on the heel) against the coffee table, and while he eats, he has a pretty elaborate conversation with Eric about waffles without Eric bothering to wake up for it.

Running with Karl is exhausting, and it _is_ Saturday morning, so eventually after finishing his flakes, Viggo does the sensible thing and slides to the right into a more or less horizontal position.

When he wakes again, it is to the smell of pancakes and the sound of Eric chatting. He might be talking to someone on the phone, he might also be talking to his culinary creation, Viggo can't be sure about that. As it is, he turns onto his back, and without opening his eyes he yells 'pancakes' in a tone of voice that hopefully delivers that he is in desperate need of some.

***

On New Year's Eve Mr Bean caught Mo and Rob puking their guts out in the shrubbery in front of the science building. Mo is pretty sure they'd have gotten away with telling him they had the flue or something, but they were also still holding their bottle of vodka in their hands. For real now, you can't leave vodka unattended, especially not on New Year's Eve. Liv or someone will steal it from you. It's like they have a nose for vodka, like some sort of booze hound.

Mo was afraid they'd be couched for the next day or week or something. Being couched generally isn't too bad, really, because Mr Bean is an okay listener, Mo guesses. But thing is, being couched with Rob is horrible. Rob has issues, for serious. It's like he's fun to hang and good at pretending he's got stuff figured out, but when he starts talking about serious stuff, it's like you are caught in a marathon of Hollyoaks or something. Mo thinks he needs some form of therapy (not JC kind of therapy, like talking to Mr Bean or Mr M or something, but, like, proper therapy). Liv says all therapy Rob needs is a good slap because he's a massive liar.

But anyway, turns out, Mr Bean had his sofa re-polstered or something because he didn't couch them but had them clean out some mangy closet under the stairs. That, as it turned out, wasn't a real punishment at all. Sure, the millions of spiders there were proper disgusting, especially the one that fell on Mo's head. But in midst all the shit they carried out and threw away, she and Rob found two treasures. Well, Mo found them because she was actually looking at stuff. But Rob was the one hiding it in the boys' lav on the way out, so they could have a proper look at it later.

Treasure chest one was a box filled with booze. And not just any booze, but the self-made kind of stuff. Mo was proper excited about that because she was still sort of mourning the loss of her vodka, but Rob said they needed to test it first, otherwise they might die from it because it could be detergent or rocket-fuel or stuff to de-ice windows or something. It wasn't, though, so now they have proper strong spirits that are like liquid gold.

The other thing was a photo album sort of thing with slight water-damage. Rob was not interested in it at all, after he saw that it wasn't vintage porn (Rob so needs therapy.). So Mo kept it for herself, stuffed it into her spare holdall, shoved that under the bed and forgot about it. 

Until today when she and Liv are hanging in Mo's room and Susa storms in and is all like, Mo, give me back my ballet shoes, I lend them to you half a year ago or something.

They search for the shoes (well, Mo and Susa do; Liv stays sitting on Mo's bed and argues with her step-dad over Whatsapp) for ten minutes but can't find them anywhere. What they do find, is Mo's spare holdall and the closet photo album sort of thing.

'Woah, where'd you get that?' Susa asks.

'What?' Mo replies, mostly stuck under her bed like a mechanic working on the undercarriage.

'Some mangy year book,' Liv says, before returning to her never-ending family drama on her phone. 'What, seriously? _You_ take the GCSE's seriously, if you're so in love with them.'

'What year book?' Mo asks and starts wriggling out from under her bed.

'Says “Jackson College – A celebration of” and I can't read the rest because there's dirt or something stuck to it.'

Mo finally sees light again, having successfully extracted herself from the death trap that is her bed. Promptly she nearly collides with Susa who's sitting cross-legged on the carpet, the photo album in her lap.

'Seriously, where did you get that?' Susa asks again and sounds so amused that Mo immediately sits down next to her. Even Liv looks up from her phone for longer than five seconds.

'From some closet Mr Bean had us clearing out, me and Rob when he caught us – whoa!' Mo interrupts her own explanation and points at a photo on the wavy paper, so Susa doesn't turn the page. 'Is that [Mr Lee](http://s.telegraph.co.uk/graphics/TimelineGenerator/bin/img/1433973305007/WickerMan.jpg)?'

Susa stares at the picture for a long ten seconds, then she starts laughing so hard that snot comes out of her nose. It's proper disgusting, but Mo can't say she blames her. Mr Lee isn't only wearing the world's ugliest mustard turtleneck, even for 70s standards, but his hair looks like he stuck his finger into a socket. It definitely _is_ Mr Lee, though, despite being, like, 100 years younger. 70's Mr Lee already has the stare of death _down_.

When Susa recovers and Liv abandoned her phone and her step-dad in favour of sitting on the floor with them, they leaf through the album together. And yeah, Mo said earlier that Rob lost interest when he found that this wasn't porn, and it pretty much is the opposite of that, she guesses. Horror porn maybe, or kind of like when you drive by a horrible car accident and can't look away. It's more like that.

The book – so says the foreword at least – is supposed to highlight some of JC's achievements over the last fifty years or something. Now, Mo isn't an expert on highlights, if we aren't talking about hair, but this here? God, what a freak show.

Liv loses it for the first time when they come across a page celebrating the arts and crafts talents at JC, and one of the pictures shows a very young, not very happy looking [Mr Bean](https://img.buzzfeed.com/buzzfeed-static/static/enhanced/webdr01/2013/3/21/11/enhanced-buzz-24700-1363878821-3.jpg?no-auto) in a woolen sweater that looks like it was knitted by the sheep itself. They also agree that they won't ever EVER let Mr Bean _or_ Mr Mortensen give them detention for boozing again, since they have photographic evidence of [them](https://img.buzzfeed.com/buzzfeed-static/static/enhanced/webdr01/2013/3/21/12/enhanced-buzz-9325-1363884962-14.jpg?no-auto) holding Jameson bottles like they were their children and looking well-mullered in the process. There are also several pictures of [Mr Mortensen looking like Jesus and / or a homeless person](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/564x/6a/d7/92/6ad792125aa8ea11aced599a64b79efb.jpg), and Mo doesn't care if the caption on the side says 'Drama Club and Comedy Projects' and the nineties were a horrible decade; she will have nightmares of [Mr Bana with a blond mullet](https://img.buzzfeed.com/buzzfeed-static/static/2016-02/1/22/enhanced/webdr06/enhanced-3185-1454384232-5.png).

This isn't the best part, though.

That happens when they get to pictures of previous inmates, captioned 'JC's Student Body'. With a title like that (and with Susa's dirty mind), it's totally logical that they spend the next quarter of an hour using the assorted pictures as a printed version of Tinder. Unsurprisingly, Liv tends to go for blokes with buzz cuts and girls who look like they want to punch your teeth out. Mo herself discovers that she apparently has a thing for 80s rock-stars which is pretty embarrassing. Not by far as embarrassing, though – and Mo can't stress that enough – as Susa.

'You both got fucking awful taste', she decides, shaking her head with disgust and slapping both Mo and Liv in the face with her hair in the process. 'I'll leave you to your chavs and perms-gone-wrong, guys. There's only one lad in here I'd get my knickers off for.' Utterly sure, she points at a photo in the lower right corner. 'That one. He's proper cute.'

Both Liv and Mo lean closer to inspect Susa's choice; a dark haired bloke cuddling a pitbull to his chest. Both Liv and Mo look up from the picture simultaneously. Liv arches an eyebrow. Mo's eyes widen. Liv nods. Mo clasps a hand over her mouth.

'Well jealous, are you?' Susa, oblivious, asks.

Mo bites down on her tongue while Liv arches her other eyebrow as well. She looks at Susa and even tries to suppress her grin before she says,

'Mate, you do know that that's [Mr Bloom](http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_B1LlYh6iKqs/S-uRt2ti85I/AAAAAAAABS0/3uFfRy4KhHE/s400/orlando-bloom-young-2.jpg), right?'

 

(Bonus: Stuff the girls apparently didn't notice in the yearbook also includes pupil!Orlando advertising JC'S short lived [boxing club](https://encrypted-tbn0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcRFT3uOZQ0s0vxcy0uflXEFSZmekOOZG_-mMWbQHdu1RksL95-m4A) and also pupil!Orlando, after a long long night of boozing and getting caught by Sean, having to pose for the school-wide campaign for ['Milk! It's good for you](http://www.hollywoodmoviejerseys.com/uploads/1/0/2/3/10237892/4225929_orig.jpg)'. - You're all welcome.)

***

Dominic has dreaded this Monday. First of all, because it is Monday which means he has to teach third form and half of that lot aren't even house-trained – last week one of them managed to wedge a centrifuge tube up her nose and it got stuck. Second of all, because it is frankfurters-and-beans day in the canteen, and Dominic still disputes that this even qualifies as food. And thirdly, they have a mandatory staff meeting in the afternoon. Ninety minutes in, and they are only on item four on the agenda. Out of nine. 

Dominic hates his life sometimes.

Everyone looks bored. Well, everyone but Gerry next to Dominic who randomly snickers to himself and apparently even takes notes.

Mostly to blame for the massive delay for once is not Orlando. He who usually holds up every meeting by disagreeing with everyone and everything just for the sake of it is surprisingly quiet. Well, if you disregard the scoffs and violent headshakes. Instead, though, right at the start most of the math department got into an argument about... Dominic wants to say which kind of calculator to buy for the school, but he isn't sure; he zoned out after twenty minutes. He only came back to when Eric jumped up from his seat and waved his ever-present calculator around like he was a touched street preacher and it was his bible. 

Matters weren't helped when Craig obviously got bored during item three and started asking inane questions that everyone knew were bullshit. Christopher answered them at length anyway because it's a 'decent' thing to do and 'decent' people always reply to 'decently' voiced concerns. Dominic wonders if the English department might have a spare thesaurus they might want to donate to the deputy headmaster.

As they start on item five – Dominic glances down at his printed out agenda which says 'Project-oriented-learning week', whatever the hell that is supposed to mean – about ten hands are instantly raised. Dominic keeps himself from rolling his eyes; next to him, Gerry snickers and raises his biro again.

As a heated discussion of – ah, hell, Dominic can't even pretend in his own head that he cares – starts, Dominic discreetly looks around. Cate is grading essays. Dom Monaghan tries to stick his pen into Billy's ear who swats him away like a gnat whilst still taking part in the debate. Bernard is very obviously asleep. Sean is cleaning his desk, which in his case mostly means slightly straightening stacks of papers and wiping away dust with his sleeve. Karl gets up, apparently leaving for the loo again – for the third time.

Christopher calls on Orlando who decided to end his vow of silence to reply to something Viggo just said.

'I get your concern, Vig', he says, 'but I'm sorry, you're wrong -'

'BINGO!' shouts Gerry.

Everyone, including Orlando, look at Gerry. Gerry clamps his mouth shut, then pretends to have a coughing attack, wheezing 'Sorry, sorry' in between coughs. He keeps that up, until Orlando has had enough and just continues talking, refocusing the room's attention back on him.

Dominic waits until Gerry has stopped again, rather red in the face, then he leans closer.

'What the hell was that about?' he whispers.

Gerry coughs again, quieter and for real this time.

'Five in a row, mate', he says, like that is an explanation. 'Equals Bingo.'

Dominic makes sure that his facial expression reflects that Gerry is making even less sense than normal. Gerry coughs again and then pushes the piece of paper he's been scribbling on all the while onto Dominic's part of the desk. It's not a series of notes, it is a crudely made Bingo sheet, titled 'Staff Meeting Bingo'. It shows short sentences instead of numbers. There is a neat row of crosses from left to right in the bottom row; the words underneath still readable.

 _Cate grades._ \- Crossed out.

 _Bernie snoozes._ \- Crossed out.

 _Karl skives._ \- Crossed out.

 _Christopher says 'decent'._ \- Crossed out.

And finally: _Orlando disagrees with Viggo._ \- Crossed out.

Dominic looks up to meet Gerry's eyes. Gerry grins broadly and points at the neat row of five crosses.

'Bingo', he says and sounds like today is the best day ever.

'You're a very strange man,' Dominic points out.

Gerry's grin grows even wider (Dominic didn't think that was possible), and he leans over and crosses out the square in the upper right corner.

 _'Show of affection á la West',_ it reads.

***

21 touches on the 21st of March:

1 - Eric wakes twice during the night because Viggo's toe nudges his cheek. His foot is smelly. Tiredly, Eric thinks that he really doesn't mind it when Viggo ignores his own bed to sleep with him. He just wished Viggo would manage to do it the right way up more often.

2 - Viggo, while brushing his teeth, watches how Eric tries to shave with just one eye open. It's a bit dangerous, a sharp blade and no depth perception. Eric doesn't even protest when Viggo takes his chin in his hand and finishes for him.

3 - Eric forgot to buy food (or he ate it. Either way.), so they have pre-breakfast (the one before the one in the dining hall) in Viggo's kitchen. The heater is still on the fritz and the kettle only holds water for one mug at a time. Viggo pushes the first mug of steaming tea into Eric's waiting hands, then wraps his own around Eric's to get some of the warmth while they wait for the kettle again.

4 - Viggo takes to long (two seconds) in front of the fridge. Eric hip-checks him out of the way to get to the cheese.

5 - Eric _is_ pretty tired still. Which is how he manages to step on Viggo's toes not once but two times in ten minutes. 

6 - Viggo listens attentively to Eric's recollection of his dreams of last night. They involve driving through the outback, getting punched by koalas and, for some reason, reading a book about bonsai trees while lying atop one another in a hammock.

7 - Eric, in turn, listens to Viggo's my-coffee-hasn't-yet-kicked-in-don't-hold-me-responsible-for-my-words rant about the “Goddamn blasphemic little shitheads” from his third form while they make their way to the dining hall. Viggo talks himself in such a rage that Eric has to grip his elbow twice and adjust his direction, or he would've turned left instead of right, might've fallen down the main staircase.

8 - Viggo sits down next to Eric and nudges him with his shoulder, until Eric readjusts in his seat and acts as a human visual shield between Viggo and Orlando. Because Viggo can't deal with Orlando this morning, and Orlando has a way of zeroing in on that. Eric happily eats with both his elbows propped on the table, shoulders even broader than normal, and it only earns him one disapproving glance from Christopher and Orlando each.

9 - Eric, full of delicious toast and beans and surprise pancakes pats his belly as they leave the dining hall and declares that this is going to be a good day. Viggo grins at him, then pats Eric's belly as well and agrees.

10 - Viggo has a lesson during first period; Eric doesn't. Viggo's in the middle of discussing with his fourth form how the fact that the holy trinity doesn't involve a woman is not automatically sexist. That's when he spots Eric walking past, right outside the window, on his way back from the arts building. Viggo's pupils once more huddle together to discuss the holy trinity among themselves, so they miss how their teacher messes up the perfectly clean window by pressing his sweaty palm against it, Eric doing the same on the outside like this was some cheesy prison movie.

11 – Eric and Gerry came up with a new routine in Johnny's drama class. During break, Eric tells him that Viggo plays a major role in it. Viggo automatically looks to Johnny for confirmation. Why he does that, he himself doesn't even know. Because of course Johnny only nods sagely and declares it the truth; Eric and Gerry _are_ his star-pupils after all. Viggo doubts that Johnny means it as a joke and judging by the proud look on Gerry's face, Gerry doesn't take it as one either. But Eric grins at Viggo, says, c'mon, we both know you want to. And yeah, Viggo kinda does. So he nods, steps up behind Eric and hops on for a piggy back ride on Erica, the backwards kangaroo.

12 – Viggo is the one who has to act as a human walking cane to get Eric and his pulled back muscle to registration in time. He doesn't mind that so much, especially when Eric, still leaning heavily against him as they wait for the pupils to sit down, mutters that the last time this happened to him was during sex. Viggo adjusts Eric's arm on his shoulder and says he didn't know piggy back rides were in the kamasutra.

13 – Eric's back is much better after the paracetamol Orlando forced-upon him ('Honestly, did you know that I pay the kids from my house to look after _you_ when you chaperone them? Idiot.'). He still hums in appreciation when Viggo rubs his flat palm over his sore shoulder before depositing him in his classroom.

14 – Viggo and Eric are both rather enthusiastic to get into the dining hall at lunch time. It _is_ a bit embarrassing that Mahdi Sahin shakes his head at them and tells them that if they went one at a time, they wouldn't get stuck in the door.

15 – Eric is very pleased with the newest twist to JC's lunch hour; Tuesday recently having become 'Meals of the world' day. Hey, it's surprise food! However, he suspects at least half of _Viggo's_ relentless enthusiasm about red beet (the week before last; Finland day apparently) and fried tuna (Eric approves of Japan's school meal choices) is down to the fact that both Sean and Orlando loathe Tuesdays with abandon. Sean actually brought Frey Bentos' with him today and proceeds to eat the kidney pie it contains straight out of the tin. Orlando is so torn between disapproving of Sean's lack of manners and being disgusted by the Korean Fish soup still untouched on his tray, he doesn't seem to know what to do. He scowls deeply when his and Viggo's eyes meet. Viggo is still grinning with delight when he holds a fork with a huge portion of fermented cabbage in front of Eric's face. Eric firmly grips his wrist, so Viggo can't pull away again, before opening his mouth as wide as he can.

16 – Viggo finds Virginia Shaw and Emma Redding sitting on the stairs behind the science building. Neither of them smell of smoke, the usual (and Viggo's) reason for coming here. He sees the concern on Virginia's face and the careful lack of any expression on Emma's. It changes to fierce anger, stopping short only from baring teeth, when he crouches down in front of them and asks if everything is all right. Immediately Virginia reassures him that yes, sure, 'course it is, in that earnest way kids have when they think they can handle a situation on their own. Emma doesn't disagree but the line of her shoulders hardens even further. The cheap fabric of Virginia's raincoat rustles as she drops her hand awkwardly into her lap instead of placing it on Emma's arm. Viggo doesn't tell her that a light touch on the shoulder can keep you from drifting apart or crumbling in on yourself. Instead he says 'my door's always open, if you want to talk', then straightens up again and pulls his cigarette from behind his ear. Emma glares down at his feet, and Viggo gives Virginia a reassuring smile and walks away. He hears the fabric of her raincoat again as she shuffles closer to Emma.

17 – Eric literally runs into Viggo when, on 3.16 p.m. he is the first to leave his classroom. That is partly due to the speed in which he flees the scene of mass-dyscalculia. But also it is because Viggo is _right_ there, leaning against the wall right next to Eric's classroom door. So, Eric bumps into Viggo, Viggo can't really do anything about this because of the solid brick wall, and then Eric's horde of first formers stampedes out of the room, pretty much trapping them like this. Squashed against Viggo like this was a subway in Tokyo during rush hour, Eric braces his hands on either side of Viggo's head and declares that he's just saved Viggo from the swarming locusts. Viggo shows his appreciation by bursting into laughter and accidentally spitting Eric in the face a bit.

18 – Viggo is very glad that Eric decided that Erica, the backwards kangaroo is not yet ready for public consumption, especially in light of the fact that JC hosts a small Dance Show this evening, courtesy of the unlikely collaboration of Johnny and Karl. Viggo has the questionable honour of being seated in the front row because half of the dancers are from his house. Eric, ever the good Samaritan, joins him there. Neither of them expected this to be this... Viggo won't say bad because teaching is a process and you gotta award dedication and such. But when girls dressed as cats face off boys dressed as street mutts in what is very clearly a rip off of 'Grease', Eric's hand grips Viggo's knee so hard, he thinks he can feel his kneecap crack.

19 – Eric decides that between pulling a muscle in his back because Viggo is fat and a muscle in his belly because singing teenagers are hilarious, he paid his dues for the day. So he retires to Viggo's rooms because he has the larger TV screen. And while Viggo does rounds and socializes with his animal pound, Eric lies down on the carpet and watches Cesar Milan on youtube. Viggo comes back eventually and from his carpet, Eric informs him that he knows exactly how to train Boris to run on Karl's treadmill. If the need ever occurs. Viggo proves to be an excellent human being all around because he looted JC's kitchen for South Korean leftovers, and the great thing about fried tuna is that you don't even have to sit up to be able to eat it. Viggo changes youtube channels to 'Kitchen Nightmares', which Eric can only ever watch when he is eating, sits down on the sofa and uses Eric's stomach as a pillow for his naked feet to rest on. 

20 – Viggo admits that kicking his best friend in the side to get him to fetch beer is not the nicest thing he has done all day. Effective, though, since it puts a cold lager in his hand.

21 – They decide to retire around midnight. Eric holds the doorknob in his hand and looks back, but Viggo hasn't moved from the couch. He announces he'll sleep in his own bed tonight because Eric's sheets need changing. Eric laughs and replies that he won't be changing them for Viggo's sake, since either way he, Viggo, will sleepwalk over anyway and he, Eric, will end up with a foot in his face or Viggo's upper body trapping his legs. Which is exactly what happens, of course.

***

Because Sean is a manipulator, Viggo is lazy, and Gerry is, let's face it, incapable at pretty much everything in life, it's Orlando who finds himself accompanying a bunch of JC's boarders to York on his free Wednesday afternoon. Because if you deposit your children in boarding school, you don't have to buy clothes with them or bother with any of the other little everyday things; at least according to some parents.

To be fair, some of the busload of kids are not Orlando's to worry about for the afternoon. Yasmin is picked up by her mother and an overly enthusiastic Labrador, and Joanie's father waits in a flashy sports car that pretty much blocks the bus lane. At the sight of her ever-surly looking brother, Liv's face turns into something resembling a smile and she even lets his husband envelope her in a half-hug without kneeing him in the balls.

Orlando turns around to face his remaining charges. He briefly calculates the time it will take him to find fitting running shoes for Philipp's duck feet, threaten an employee at Mobitrend into fixing Parker's iPhone, then buy a new pen for Mike, contact lenses for Younes and – his personal highlight of the day – first-time-tampons for Jessie.

'Right, you lot', he says, glancing at his watch, 'let's get this over with till half four, so we can go to McDonalds'. And till then, Phil, stop picking your nose, seriously.'

***

When the boys from Jackson College's rugby team return to the locker rooms – muddy and sweaty and laughing -, it is already occupied. The boys stop dead in their tracks, except for the forward with the number 12 because he currently has his head stuck in his jersey. The captain, in his famed polite manner, enquires to what they owe the honour of JC's Arts Club's presence. Well, what he says is 'the fuck you ponces doing here'.

All members of the Arts Club continue with what they are doing – which is turn all the oddly shaped blemishes of the coat racks into little artworks; where rubbed or chipped off paint had left the metal bare before, now miniature maritime scenes appear one by one. After all, true artists aren't gonna be intimidated from their calling by a bunch of mugs who enjoy tackling each other into puddles. Well, all except for Susa Langham who is temporarily distracted from her tiny clown fish by No. 12's bare chest.

***

Karl is as happy as anyone that the weather is finally turning, he really is. For one thing, it means that he doesn't have to fight Boris for first shower every night because his dog isn't muddy all over. Also, Boris loves spring, rolls around every patch of sunlight on grass he can find like a puppy on a sugar high. Yeah, okay Karl gets a bit annoyed when – as soon as it's a bit friendlier outside – the part of the woods he has all for himself in winter is suddenly as crowded as Trafalgar Square again. 

So he puts in his earbuds, turns the volume up and trusts that Boris, off-leash, will clear the way for him. About half-way through the woods he only had one near-collision with an old bat with a fucking walker. But then someone shoves him from the side, nearly sending him into the next shrubbery. He catches his balance and simultaneously rips his earbuds out, instantly ready for a shouting match at least. But the shove wasn't and accident, and he finds Beth in front of him, in bright blue running gear, her whistle dangling from her neck and a shit-eating grin on her face.

'Oh, sorry, did I disturb your little stroll there, buddy?' she asks laughingly, hopping up and down on the spot. 'Can you do something above first gear, too, Karl?'

Beth, a fucking gymnastics teacher, is mocking him? 

Karl stuffs his earbuds into his pocket and starts running again, at a much faster pace, shoving Beth in return as he passes her. It's so fucking on.

***

Then there is this Saturday when Sean gets rudely awoken at fuck early in the morning because Orlando is trying to kick his door in. When, barely functioning, Sean opens, Orlando stands there in a leather jacket instead of his usual duffle coat and with his helmet under his arm. The look he gives Sean is to equal parts disgusted, impatient, and long suffering, and as he pushes past Sean into the flat, he insists that Sean agreed to going biking with him. 

Sean can't remember any such thing, especially not pretty much in the middle of the night. But there is a reason why Orlando is unofficially voted 'scariest head of house' every year for a decade; he runs a tight ship there and applies the same techniques with his mates. So when he orders Sean to get dressed and turns to fire up the coffee maker, Sean does what he is told, even if he nearly collapses into his bathtub when he pulls on his jeans. Orlando looks at him and feeds him the same way he looks and fills up his bike, somewhat fond, but mostly deadly efficient, before he shoves Sean out the door. 

Until that point, Sean has been mostly sleepwalking, and during the brief moments of almost-consciousness, he kind of regretted not pushing tiny Orlando down one of JC's many staircases in the early 90s. That way, he wouldn't have to deal with him now. However, they step outside and the sun is dead engaged on blinding them, the sky is ridiculously blue and Orlando's wearing the biggest grin on his face as he climbs on his [stupid Yamaha](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/b1/5d/48/b15d48a5b994b330ec9e9c990842187a.jpg). 

Sean guesses there are worse ways to spend his Saturday.

***

Cate is still the unchallenged queen of betting at Jackson College. And yeah, it's all about knowing the little things and remembering them at the right moment. It especially helps if you know your fellow colleagues worst fears and even more so, the little ones. Because let's face it, Gerry might have nightmares about zombie-vampire-Godzilla apocalypses but there is a rather rare chance that Cate can cash in on that. So, she makes sure to note the little things, such as...

...Orlando is still scared of babies and spiders. Cate also very strongly suspects he is afraid of Valentine's Days and his significant others' birthdays. But that might just be Orlando being a dick.

… Craig is a germophobe. It honestly baffles Cate how he can be friends with Dom then.

… Eric's worst fear is falling asleep five minutes before the end of a cricket match and waking up and having no internet to look up the results immediately. Eric is a ridiculous person. Cate has known that since 1995.

… Sean is afraid of foreign food. The first couple of years Cate thought he was just being an exemplary teacher, really preparing for every eventuality before going on a class trip. As it turns out, all of his exploratory missions to future trip destinations are about scouting decent restaurants.

… Viggo hates the scent of frankincense, absolutely loathes it. That itself does not qualify as a 'fear'. Cate potentially telling Orlando about it, that on the other hand does.

… Christopher is afraid of Gina Torres. He would never admit it, of course, but Cate knows and Bernard knows which is why Bernard never does any head-of-department stuff but just sends his 'trusted lieutenant, my fantastic second in command, the woman everyone in the English Department worships like a goddess' into Christopher's office. It's also the reason why the English department has by far the biggest budget.

… Harry is afraid of milk. And Cate doesn't mean 'allergic to', for all she knows he very much isn't. But still you can put a glass of milk in front of him and watch him turn green in 0.2 seconds.

… Gerry is afraid of vampire-zombie-Godzillas. And of bicycle chains. Different to Harry's aforementioned fear, this is actually reasonable. Cate was there, that fateful day in 2006 when they were doing a healthy, outdoorsy staff trip and Gerry was – and there is no other word for it – viciously attacked by the chain of his rented bike. Think cobra leaping from the undergrowth. And Gerry in the next ditch.

...Dominic West doesn't seem to be scared of anything. Cate worries about that from time to time.

***

'I hate this place.'

Orlando, king of subtle and restraint, smashes his tray down next to Sean's. The cafeteria instantly grows quieter; no one in their right mind wants to piss of he who looses his temper and may as well throw a bread roll at someone's head. Sean, who is very much attached to his bread roll since it's the only thing edible today, just grunts in acknowledgment. Orlando, of course, sees that as an invitation to unload his troubles.

'I just had a meeting with Bernie and Paul regarding project-oriented-learning-week,' he proclaims and stabs his fork into the... Sean wants to say paella, but honestly, it's Terrible Tuesday, so he has no idea what the kitchen staff served them today.

Sean grunts again. Orlando assassinates a piece of probably-potato with his fork.

'I hate both of them', he repeats. 'You know what we accomplished in the last half hour? Fuck all. And why? Because they are both imbeciles. You know what they did?'

Sean, busy with eyeing Orlando's bread roll and contemplating how to steal it from him, grunts for a third time, this time making it sound like a question.

'I don't care what the English department does in that week', Orlando says, possibly not answering his own question, but instead opting for a more general complaint instead. 'If they want to re-enact half of Shakespeare's plays, fine by me. If they want to re-write the Canterbury Tales, that's great, too. But did they come up with anything remotely close to a plan?'

Furiously, Orlando shoves a forkful of... Sean is gonna be generous and will call it 'food' even though it probably isn't, into his mouth and glares at Sean. Sean makes a sympathetic noise and nods while his right hand slowly reaches for Orlando's unguarded bread roll.

'Exactly', Orlando says after swallowing (because only barbarians talk with their mouth full). 'Of course they didn't. Instead they sat there and quoted Shakespeare and Chaucer, respectively, at one another.'

Sean's hand, somewhat tenderly, closes over Orlando's bread roll. Orlando shoves more food into his mouth and manages to chew and growl at the world at large at the same time.

'A conversation made up entirely out of fucking quotes, for fuck's sake', he grumbles. 'Every damn time I try talking to them. They are mental.'

Pulling his hand back, booty secured, Sean hums. Orlando looks at him. Sean gives him a half smile.

'Insanity is doing the same thing over and over again, but expecting different results', he quotes.

'Oh, shut the fuck up', Orlando grumps and points his fork at Sean's right hand. 'And give me back my roll.'

***

Gerry needs to have words with West. His behaviour is absolutely unacceptable. Here they are, having a free period together and lucking out because they were able to occupy two of the three PCs in the staff room. And what does West do, with the entire internet at his disposal? 

Does he click the links to hilarious youtube videos of idiots trying to eat a spoon full of cinnamon that Gerry generously shares with him? 

No. 

Does he even react to Gerry's very unsubtle suggestion that they should find a free ego-shooter to download and spend the next half hour trying to assassinate one another? 

No.

Does he use the school's excellent broadband to look at porn?

No. (Gerry advises against that, tbh. None of the speakers of the PCs work, and porn without sound is just sad. It's like looking at the result of a very untalented kid having a go at flesh-coloured Play-Dooh.)

What does West do instead? He has the audacity to surf the net – wait for it, and it's honestly horrendous, Gerry is shuddering just thinking about it – for flats to rent in the general York-area. 

Flats to rent. 

Why for heaven's sake? He has a perfectly good room at JC, doesn't he? So why? WHY?

Gerry stares at the screen, then transfers his look of horror to West who (quite unsurprisingly, because he is a shitty mate) ignores him and clicks on the next link, promising a 'cozy one bedroom flat in prime location'.

And honestly, he really leaves Gerry no choice.

Craig, using the third computer for whatever stuff German teachers research online (probably recipes for Sauerkraut), protests very loudly when Gerry gets up and pulls the LAN cable from its socket. 

***

Patricia Summer, Aylin Ansari, and Tamara Redding step up to [Kiele](http://kingofwallpapers.com/kiele-sanchez/kiele-sanchez-008.jpg) after second form bio.

'Mrs Sanchez', Patricia starts confidently, but then bites her lip and glances at Aylin. 'You ask her,' she murmurs.

'It was your idea', Aylin murmurs back.

'Yeah, but', Patricia starts, then just nudges Aylin with an elbow.

Kiele puts down the beaker she has just been cleaning and smiles encouragingly. Neither Patricia nor Aylin take notice of that since they are too busy elbowing one another.

'What's this about?' Kiele prompts.

Tamara rubs her nose and pushes her glasses back into place.

'We were wondering... Can't you come with us on that field trip next Saturday?'

'We're supposed to be collecting mushrooms in the Dales or summat', Patricia says, sounding less than enthusiastic. Then, as if suddenly remembering that they are trying to sell this to Kiele, she adds, 'It's probably really fun and all.'

'So can you come with us?' Tamara presses again, once more adjusting her glasses. 'Please?'

'It's nice of you to think of me', Kiele says. 'Has one of your chaperons fallen ill?'

Shuffling, quick exchange of glances, more shuffling.

'No...', Aylin says.

'But...', Patricia says.

Tamara sighs.

'We're going with Mr Monaghan and Mr Butler and...' she looks for assistance from her friends, when that doesn't come she soldiers on alone. 'Well, we'd rather you come with us, yeah?'

Kiele bites back a smile.

'Well, I'm sorry, I can't. For one thing, I know nothing about mushrooms. And also, wouldn't Mr Butler and Mr Monaghan be disappointed if they heard you didn't want to go with them?'

Tamara and Aylin look a bit ashamed, but Patricia frowns.

'They shouldn't get lost then, should they?'

Kiele can't help but smile at that after all.

'I'm sorry?'

Patricia shakes her head disapprovingly.

'Mr Butler has gotten lost in the woods on his last three field trips. Everyone knows that.'

'We don't want to get lost in the woods', Aylin says firmly.

'It's a good thing you have Mr Monaghan with you', Kiele tries to reassure them.

It's to no avail. Mentioning Dom only makes it worse, apparently.

'Don't you know?' Patricia stage whispers. 'Mr Monaghan makes people eat mushrooms in the woods! My brother told me.'

'Yeah, what if they are poisonous?' Tamara asks.

Kiele is sure that the mushrooms Dom is interested in most definitely are not poisonous at all. And she is also sure that he won't share them with his pupils. Well, fairly sure.

'So, please, Mrs Sanchez, please, can you come, too? Pleeease?'

***

'Ugh', Sean says, very expressively, when he lets himself into Orlando's flat again. 'Why did I let you talk me into this?'

The silence coming from Orlando's kitchen is very loud. Then, a moment later, Orlando comes out, wearing an apron that has “I'm actually very nice. Until you annoy me” printed onto it. He is holding a very large knife.

'Because you owe me about ten million favours. And also because I am literally in the middle of cooking you dinner. It's only fair that you do my rounds.'

'Ugh', Sean just says again and, after a de-tour to the fridge, he lets himself and his cold beer collapse onto the couch. 

'What happened?' Orlando asks from the kitchen. 'Please tell me you didn't walk in on anyone having sex. I don't have time for safe-sex-lectures this weekend.'

'Close enough', Sean says, futilely looking for the remote control for the television. 'Did you know you have a nudist colony in your house?'

Again, Orlando is silent for a moment. When Sean glances over his shoulder to the kitchen, he sees that Orlando hasn't, in fact, fainted at the idea of that but is busy consulting his cook book. Like he notices Sean watching, he glances up.

'You mean Alex and Thomas?'

'You know about that?' Sean shakes his head and takes a large sip of beer. 'Coulda warned me, mate.'

'Didn't know you had such delicate sensibilities', Orlando says, eyes on the book again. 'Oh, wait. I did. So, sorry about that.'

Sean takes another sip of beer.

'I even knocked and everything. They coulda gotten dressed. Told me not to come in. Have the bloody decency and pick up a pillow and cover themselves. Instead, the conversation went a bit like this -' Sean changes his voice into a rather good imitation of Alex Dillingham's baritone. '”Oh, evening, Mr Bean, all right?”' Then, back in his own voice, he continues. '”Please put your penis away, Alex.”'

Orlando hums, then, somewhat belatedly, he asks, 'And did he?'

'No.'

'Didn't think so.'

Sean sighs, drinks more from his beer. Meanwhile, Orlando starts chopping ribs.

'Why, though?' Sean then asks because it is a valid question. 'And why haven't you had words with them about it.'

'I did', Orlando says calmly. 'They made a compelling argument about personal liberty and sovereignty.' And Sean can hear the pride in his voice, when he adds, 'They even quoted Jean Bordin.'

Sean takes a sip from his beer.

'Ugh.'

***

On April, 1st Viggo and Eric are slightly surprised to be met with predominantly smiling faces when they walk down the halls of Jackson College to get breakfast. Several pupils congratulate them, to which Viggo responds with a slightly puzzled expression, Eric takes it in stride and says 'thank you, thank you' every time.

'You got any idea what this is about?' Viggo asks, leaning in as they collect their trays.

'No clue', Eric replies, as per usual much more relaxed about it. 'Ooh, lookit, we're getting mango slices today.'

However, even Eric gets suspicious when at the teachers' table, Orlando greets them with a facial expression that is his version of a smile (Eric thinks of great white sharks whenever he does that). Sean even slaps Viggo's back whilst snickering into his toast.

'Seriously, what is this about?' Viggo mutters.

'These mangos are fucking delicious, mate,' Eric replies, mango juice running down his fingers and his chin.

Eric proceeds to eat his weight in mangos and Orlando is suspiciously nice, spending the entire breakfast discussing flower arrangements with Sean for some reason. It's when they are about to get up, that Christopher suddenly looms behind them.

'It is quite unorthodox', he says gravely while Viggo gestures Eric silently to wipe his face clean from mango juice, 'and I wish you'd talked to me about it beforehand. But it is 2017, and I would not stand in the way of progress -'

His announcement gets briefly interrupted by Orlando snorting coffee through his nose at that. Christopher's magnificent eyebrows of disapproval arch briefly before he gets back on track.

'- nor of the course of what has clearly been on the horizon for long. So, my heartfelt congratulations to the both of you.'

He nods to himself, obviously very pleased with his show of leadership and demonstration of caring, ignores Sean's snickering as he pats Orlando's back who still hasn't recovered from the coffee in his nostrils, then strides away with maximum dignity.

'What the fuck is going on?' Eric now asks. 

Viggo uses his sleeve as a napkin for Eric's sticky chin.

Gerry smiles grandly and pulls a crumpled envelope from his breast pocket and tosses it over the table in Viggo's and Eric's general direction. It unfortunately lands in the butter, so Viggo's sleeve suffers a little more as he wipes it clean before opening it.

What he finds inside is quite illuminating, and even Eric abandons his contemplations of whether or not to get more fruit in favour of pulling the piece of paper from Viggo's hand.

There is an old picture of them printed onto the front of the card, a rather poorly done Photoshop-job adding what appears to be bells and doves to the corners.  


[](http://pics.livejournal.com/afra_schatz/pic/00045gsx/)

 

♥

And in Word's prettiest calligraphy, the text on the page reads:

"With great joy  
you are invited to  
celebrate the marriage of

Eric Bana  
and  
Viggo Mortensen

Saturday, the first of April  
two thousand seventeen  
at half past four in the afternoon on the cricket pitch."

Viggo is by now laughing tears. Eric looks at the invitation for a moment longer, then turns to Viggo.

'Mate, where did we register? You remember putting a new barbie onto the list? Cause I really want one.'

 

***

 

Orlando, contrary to popular belief, _can_ keep his mouth shut when faced with other people's idiocy. You don't believe this? These are seven occasions on May, 7th when Orlando only silently judged people.

-1 – Viggo sits down at the breakfast table, unfolds last Friday's “Sun” and then starts commenting on the headlines. Orlando would very much like to tell him to shut the fuck up or alternately make him, by making him eat the stupid rag. But he knows that Viggo is just doing to get a rise out of him. So he keeps his mouth shut and just eats his eggs with a little too much force.

\- 2 – Speaking of food being treated a little unkindly, Orlando does see that Naomi Isaks is trying to shove a grape into her nose. He doesn't say anything, however, because he is pretty sure that Gerry dared her to do it and he is not gonna publically undermine Gerry's authority (what little there is of it). He guesses he should be glad that it's just peas up a nose and not phallic shaped objects up other passways.

 

\- 3 – Orlando also doesn't say anything when he leaves JC and walks past Jay and Mikael trying to extract each others' tonsils in the foyer. He is not an idiot; it would only mean he would have to give them the sex talk for the third time and it would do fuck all. Also, it's better that they are busy with each other than trying to beat up the art club kids again for painting the rugby locker room.

\- 4 – Speaking of misguided sexuality, Orlando says nothing when he sees Eric and his Falcon. Even though Eric is kneeling in front of it, polishing the rims, and Orlando swears he can hear him sweet-talking it. 

\- 5 – He also doesn't comment on the fact that Sean, in his sweatpants and wearing just one sock, opens his door to Orlando whilst “talking” to some woman he met at the pub yesterday. Orlando uses the term “talking” in the widest sense here; it's bordering on phone sex, really, even though Sean is just asking about some recipe or other. Orlando says nothing because it's rude to interrupt your mate's food-phonesex and also because that recipe doesn't sound half-bad and he wants Sean to cook it.

 

\- 6 – Since Sean doesn't seem to have any of the required ingredients (or any ingredients, really) at home, they have to grab lunch at the Pony. There, the bar man talks shit about ManU because he is an inbred son of a whore who clearly has never seen a good footie team in his sorry life. Orlando doesn't tell him that. He knows that the Pony's staff is not above spitting in your food.

 

\- 7 – Orlando also doesn't say anything when he comes back to JC and walks past Karl and Beth trying to extract each others' tonsils in the foyer. He is not an idiot; it would only mean he would have to give them the sex talk, even though they are his fucking colleagues.

***

Say what you want about Viggo and Eric (and Orlando has done so regularly and often), but they are incredibly good sports.  
   
Which is how half the teaching staff of Jackson college wakes up fairly late on Sunday morning, and there is a general virus of (at least partial) memory loss going around.  
   
Orlando, for one, is pretty certain that he officiated a wedding in the cricket pavilion. He is also mostly sure that he joined Eric and Viggo in unholy matrimony, and not, as his obviously very disturbed brain insists, Viggo and eleven-year-old Jeremy Needham (Eric being relegated to flower girl).  
   
In a continuation of that notion, Sean's mind has erased Viggo and Eric entirely from yesterday's proceedings. Instead the first conscious though it presents Sean with (or, to put it more accurately, slaps him in the face with) upon waking, is that yesterday saw  _him_  getting married. And not just once but four times. The handful of Aspirin that he pops, once he managed to drag himself to the bathroom, is subsequently not owed to a hangover (he is from the North; he doesn't get hangovers) but to the thought of horrendous alimony claims.  
Gerry wakes up not thinking he got wed to West (not even Gerry's brain, even booze-soaked, thinks that plausible), but filled with a righteous hatred directed at everyone in Viggo's house. This very nearly causes an incident when - on his way to breakfast - he comes very close to pushing four sixth formers down the stairs. They wished him a good morning, and Gerry is certain it was provocation. It's only when he is on his third plate of scrambled eggs when he kind of remembers the reason for his wrath. It has less to do with a blood feud and more with an impromptu cricket match between Viggo's and Orlando's pupils, finding Gerry on the latter's (and the losing ) side.  
   
Eric wakes with a foot in his face (possible nuptials not having changed Viggo's inability to get into bed properly) and a daisy chain in his hair. Viggo is cradling a cricket bat and an empty bottle of wine against his chest.  
   
Bernard, who supplied most of the wine, is the only person over eighteen with a perfectly clear recollection of Saturday afternoon. Unfortunately for everyone involved this is the exact opposite of helpful. Because Bernie wakes up - well-rested and sober - and decides he will endorse every single misconception of yesterday; the more outrageous, the better.  
   
***  
   
Dominic West does not approve of the close friendship Gerry and Dom Monaghan have formed. It's not that he is jealous. Having someone else entertain Gerry is great. West thinks that this is what young single mothers, who only accidentally fell pregnant, must feel like when someone offers to temporarily take their toddler off their hands.   
   
Actually, that simile doesn't work. Especially not in the situation West finds himself in in the late afternoon hours of the first Monday in April.   
   
West eyes Dom. He makes sure that his eyebrows convey the exact amount of irritation he feels right now which is a lot. There should be no misunderstanding, and there obviously isn't - the realtor woman slowly edges away from him, a look of apprehension on her own features. Only Dom (of course) completely ignores him. He is too busy sticking his head into the oven in the kitchen, announcing it's 'big enough for your average suicidal person'.  
   
 West steers the realtor lady into the sitting room whilst casually mentioning his regular and secure income. Coming back to aforementioned ill-chosen parent-child simile, it seems to be the other way around. He isn't sure whether there is such a term as force-adoption. But it seems like Gerry and Dom decided that West needs their constant supervision, and they take shifts in embarrassing the fuck out of him.  
   
How the hell is he supposed to find a new flat when his "mates" / adoptive parents / inmates escaped from a mental hospital keep tagging along? Dom is currently hanging from a cross beam in the hallway, allegedly testing whether "it can bear the weight of a sex swing".  
   
For fuck's sake.  
   
***  
   
Four more or less awkward conversations taking place on April, 4th:  
   
#1 - 'Is it possible', Craig says to Gerry as they are about halfway through lunch and Gerry has not only finished two plates of his own spaghetti, but just now pulled Craig 's over to him, 'that you maybe have a tapeworm or something?'  
   
Both Sean and Viggo on the other side of the table look thoughtful.  
   
'Probably', Gerry says with a shrug around a mouthful of spaghetti hanging from his lips. He looks like a demented chtulhu.  
   
#2 -  'But Mr Mortensen', Emily Cunnings insists, even though it's not her turn to speak, 'do you believe in God or don't you? It's a simple enough question.'  
   
Viggo leans against his blackboard, the words of pope Pius smudging the back of his shirt.  
   
'It's really not.'  
   
#3 - Orlando opens the door of his flat to find Emma Redding standing there, all blue hair and defiantly sullen face that looks like it is tired of crying.  
   
'Emma', Orlando says instead of hello.  
   
Emma stares at him long enough for Orlando to contemplate shutting the door in her face and get back to his grading.  
   
'Reckon', she finally grits out, 'I need to talk to you. About, stuff, you know.'  
   
"Stuff". Orlando's favourite.  
   
'Sure', he says, pushing his door open a bit further.  
   
#4 - Karl looks over his shoulder when on the football pitch a second shadow appears next to his. Beth has an arm stretched over her head, loosening the muscles in her shoulder.  
   
'So we meet again' she says in a fake gravelly voice because she is a giant nerd. 'You think you got time for a little cross country run after this? Or are you afraid you're gonna lose again?'  
   
***  
   
'You ever thought about what happens to your stuff and your legacy when you die?' West asks.  
   
Bernard doesn't pride always pay that much attention to the course a conversation takes. He will happily sip his second-big-break-coffee and let it bubble along and meander like a brook would through a forest. The conversation, not his coffee. But judging by the looks on Orlando', Viggo's, Gerry's, and Kiele's faces, West's question stands in no relation to anything either of them said before.  
   
'Why?' asks Orlando.  
   
'Are you ill?' asks Kiele.  
   
'Are you planning on murdering us?' asks Gerry.  
   
'Eric already claimed everything except my poetry. That, I want burned,' says Viggo.  
   
Orlando, of course, for a second looks like he'd like to get his claws into Viggo's self-characterisation as a dramatic artist. But then he opts for looking pointedly at West.  
   
West, for his part, just finished placing a sugar cube on a teaspoon and now lowers it into his tea.  
   
'Because you should. No. No, at least not today. Good to know,' he then answers all four replies all at once, like a computer working through backlogged requests.  
   
'When you murder us,' Gerry says, still hung up on that, ' be a mate and make sure I blow up properly. I don't wanna end up walking the earth looking like Dead Pool.'  
   
'You are a ridiculous person', Bernard feels the need to point out. Gerry hears the fondness in Bernard's voice and beams.  
   
'Cheers, I try.'  
   
'If you're not dying and aren't planning on either of us dying ', Kiele reasonably sums up the status quo, 'then what brings this to mind?'  
   
West steers his tea and gives her a one shouldered shrug.  
   
'Just making conversation ', he says, and since everyone (aside from Gerry who moved the majority of his focus on stealing Kiele's grapes) keeps looking at him like he grew another head, he volunteers, 'I talked about Nobel with my second formers. He was falsely presumed dead by newspapers and subsequently came up with the idea of the Nobel Prize.'  
   
'I wouldn't mind having a prize named after me', Gerry muses.  
   
'For what?' Viggo asks. 'Human Maggot  Skills?'  
   
Gerry frowns, possibly contemplating the idea that Viggo might have suggested that his soul is a butterfly. Kiele destroys that notion.  
   
'Because you eat a lot', she says. Orlando smirks in approval, despite continuing to grade at the same time.  
   
Gerry leans back in his (well, it's really Sean's, to be accurate) chair and pats his stomach in response.  
   
'Firm as a rock', he says, then reaches for West's hand. 'Here, feel.'  
   
West pulls his arm out of reach.  
   
'I'd rather not, thank you.'  
   
'Now, that's a perfect inscription for a gravestone', Bernard muses out loud and switches on his Shakespeare voice.  '"Here lies Bernard Hill. - I'd rather not, thank you", hah.'  
   
For some reason everyone now keeps looking at  _him_  funny.  
   
Ah, well.  
   
***  
   
It's cold enough for Orlando to turn up his collar as he exits the building for a quick fag. The sky is nature's equivalent of brooding, and Orlando supposes any realist writer would find this suitably symbolic or something. Orlando just hopes it won't start to rain in the next ten minutes.  
   
He finds Sean on the bench behind the science building. His eyes are damp, but Orlando really wants this fag, so he approaches anyway.  
   
Sean hasn't got allergies, like he likes to claim (because allergies are so much manlier than random emotionalism in his logic). He sniffs and smiles when Orlando sits down next to him. The paper in Sean's hand crinkles slightly when he offers a light after Orlando searched the pockets of his coat and curses.  
   
For half a cigarette length they sit there in silence. Orlando tries to tone out the tinnitus his second formers attempted to give him. Sean still fights the dampness in his eyes, a doomed enterprise entirely when he unfolds the paper again.  
   
It has rows and rows of elegant handwriting on it, fitting the obviously expensive paper. Sean smiles and not-cries both when he reads.   
   
A gust of wind blows past them, and as Sean instinctively re-adjusts his grip, two photos slip from his grasp. Orlando catches them before they have a chance to tumble away. As he hands them back, he glances down at them - a man and a woman in their twenties, smiling into the camera; a newborn baby.  
   
Orlando instinctively pulls a face at the sight of the latter but gives the first a second glance.  
   
'That Sasha Petrovic from your house?' he asks. 'Graduated 2010?'  
   
It's not a surprise. Sean gets letters like this -  _Dear Mr Bean, I sometimes think of you. Here's what I've been up to recently_  - very regularly. And more often than he'd like to admit, they turn him  teary.  
   
Sean nods as he takes the photos back.  
   
'Your memory for names is uncanny.'  
   
Orlando slips the cigarette back between his lips and grunts.  
   
'Reckons it comes from not clogging up brain cells with pointless sentimentality, eh?' Sean adds.   
   
Orlando can hear the self-depreciation in his voice, knows how Sean means it. Still he thinks of a neat stack of letters in the drawer of his own desk, Sean's small' neat hand spelling Orlando's name and varying home addresses on the envelopes.  
   
'Don't be a dick, mate', he says.  
   
Sean looks at him in that way of his, then wipes the corners of his eyes with the sleeve of his jacket.  
   
'Aye, all right', he agrees and pushes the letter into his pocket. 'You got time for a cuppa before the next round with the hellhounds?'  
   
Orlando stubs the butt  of his fag out on the bench's weathered wood.  
   
'You're on.'  
   
***  
   
'OMG, someone shoot me in the head', Eric texts Viggo at around minute fifty of utter pointless debate during the staff conference.  
   
It takes Viggo surprisingly long to reply, considering he already has his phone in his hand. Eric tries to ignore Cate, Harry, and Dom arguing about the destination of their staff trip - nuklear power station vs. windmill farm or something. It's not like anything fun is on the table anymore, not since Eric was glared into oblivion by both Orlando  _and_  Christopher for suggesting a strip club with a breakfast buffet. Viggo owes him twenty quid for doing that without cracking up, though, so it's all good.  
   
Eric's mobile vibrates in his hand. Two seconds later he gets glared at again when his boom in laughter disrupts the conversation. Viggo sent him a series of very graphic 'Walking Dead' gifs, all featuring brain explosions very prominently.  
   
It's a couple of hours later - Viggo kind of supervises cricket practice and Eric keeps him company  - that Dom and Gerry happen to walk past and are still arguing about the staff conference result.  
   
'For fuck's sake, it's like battling fucking windmills!' Dom complains, and Gerry nods fervently, the sincerity of his agreement a bit undermined by the fact that he is waving his arms about in a rather poor impression of a windmill.  
   
Eric pokes Viggo's shoulder, resisting the urge to pull at the loose thread of Viggo's cricket jumper there. Viggo shifts his attention from the pitch to Eric, smirks when he is just in time to see Gerry accidentally hitting Dom in the face.  
   
'Quite fitting, isn't it?' he muses. 'There are a couple of people I think of as windmills here.'  
   
Eric hums, his response a bit delayed because his eyes still follow Gerry who is now being pushed down a hill by an angry Dom.  
   
'Does that make you Don Quixote?' he then asks.  
   
Viggo looks at him, eyes suddenly gaining that kind of intensity usually reserved for cricket and late-night-booze-induced epiphanies.  
   
Eric grins broadly and nudges Viggo's shoulder again. On the periphery, Gerry reappears on the side of the hill, leaves sticking to his jumper, closely followed by Dom.  
   
'Don Quixote suffers from severe psychosis', Viggo says. 'You calling me mentally ill, mate?'  
   
Eric laughs and shrugs; they both know Eric thinks Viggo pretty much the only sane person in this place.  
   
'Dunno, if the shoe fits?'  
   
Viggo briefly looks out at the cricket pitch again, the demonstration of general ineptitude there not particularly comforting.  
   
'He really believes himself to be on a valiant quest', Viggo says, most probably meaning Cervantes's character, not Gerry who now has Dom in a headlock and is dragging him back to the building.  
   
'So', Viggo continues, 'he really believes he I fighting giants, not windmills, giving himself a noble purpose in life. If he knew none of it was real, then it would', he pauses, smiles, finishes, 'Well, I suppose that would drive him insane, wouldn't it?'  
   
Eric hums. Dom manages to free himself by steering Gerry to walk into instead of through the door.  
   
'That is all very profound', he then says, 'but here is the real question: If  _you_  are Don Quixote -'  
   
'Which I am not since I am aware that most of what we do is pointless and futile.'  
   
'If you  _were_  Don Quixote', Eric adjusts easily, 'Would that make me Sancho Panda or that nag of a horse?'  
   
The mangling  of Don Quixote's sidekick's name makes Viggo's eyes crinkle, and Eric supposes life can cast him as the fucking donkey for all he cares.  
   
'Hey, so I was thinking, mate,' Eric says, propping his elbow on Viggo's shoulder, 'since our bonzer suggestion for a staff trip did not receive the appreciation it deserved, and considering that we got Easter holidays -'  
   
'You're asking me whether I'm up for eating chicken wings for breakfast while staring at breasts.?' Viggo asks.  
   
Eric grins broadly.  
   
***  
   
There has been no movement whatsoever on the narrow road leading away from Jackson College. The road is properly jammed.  
   
'Pace like this, we're gonna be stuck here forever.'  
   
In the back of her brother's Subaru, Liv rolls her eyes at his words. As if Danny has any right to complain, first of it's his stupid car that has no aircon, and he and his stupid husband Jake never let her sit in the front, and it's bloody stuffy and cramped in the back.  
   
'No use griping about it, Dan', Jake says. Liv would find it funny, the way Danny shoots him a dark glare. But of course Jake ruins Liv's joy by squeezing Danny's thigh. Honestly, like they weren't already married. Liv rolls her eyes again.  
   
'I coulda taken the bus', she mutters.  
   
'No, we said we'd pick you up, didn't we', Jake insists, still sounding cheery. 'So, we could get a head start to the airport.'  
   
As if the whole hand-on-thigh thing wasn't bad enough, just being reminded of the upcoming holiday erases all grumpiness from Danny's face. Liv rolls her eyes again. It's not like she minds two weeks on Ibiza herself, but there's no need to be so soppy about it, is there.  
   
Danny's good mood lasts for a minute or so, but when the traffic on the road still doesn't move, he can barely resist from hitting the horn with his fist.  
   
'What the hell's going on there?' he grouches, looking at Liv in the rearview mirror.  
   
Liv isn't a bloody magician or anything, so how would she know.  
   
'Mr Butler's Mercedes prolly broke down again', she says anyway.  
   
'Eh?'  
   
'He's got a shitty C class,' she says when Danny keeps looking at her in the mirror and Jake half-turns to her as well. 'I told him to get his exhaust fixed, cause it sounded like a lorry.'  
   
She ignores the smile on Danny's face, like she just made him the proudest legal guardian in the UK, just cause she knows something so obvious. Like he is surprised that she picked up a thing or two in all the hours she spend at his garage. She shrugs and pulls a face.  
   
'But Mr Butler is a right muppet and he didn't. So, last month it broke down on a field trip, and he made us push him for, like twenty miles.'  
   
'You what?' Jake asks, sounding all offended, while Danny smirks.  
   
'Yeah well, better than looking at bloody frogs, innit', Liv says.  
   
The car in front of them moves, but only for, like, five yards. Danny growls. Jake squeezes his thigh again.  
   
'So, how's school?' he asks her, because he is a wanker.  
   
'Ah, c'mon, give her a break.'  
   
Liv loves her brother a bit because he shoots his husband a glance that clearly says 'what's wrong with you, it's the Easter holidays now, for fuck's sake.'   
   
Jake is, as per usual, completely immune to it. Because he is a wanker.  
   
'While we wait here, we can get it out of the way', he says, like that is a reason. 'How's maths?'  
   
'Yeah, okay', Liv says. Truth is, she hasn't got a clue what Mr Bana is on about since, probably January or something.  
   
Stupid thing is, Danny can read her like a car manual.  
   
'Really?' he asks, eyes on her again. 'You want us to have us a word with your teacher?'  
   
'Hell no', Liv protests instantly.  'What would  _you_  say to him anyway?'  
   
Danny has to use a calculator to figure out what kind of change to give to a customer who gives him a hundred quid for an eighty pounds repair job.  
   
Danny growls at her, but Liv can see the muscles around Jake's mouth twitching in amusement.  
   
'Fine,' Danny gives in, edging the car along another five yards. 'You want Jacob to have a word?'  
   
Still with that smile that can't decide whether to be smug or fond, Jake looks at her, like he's hoping she'll say yes.  
   
'Nah, you're all right', she declines.  
   
For the next five minutes, there is silence in the car. Danny taps the steering wheel impatiently and chews on the nail on his thumb, Jake looks through their travel documents for what is probably the millionth time, Liv wishes she hadn't put her headphones into her holdall that is in the trunk.  
   
   
The cars in front still don't move. On the small walkway next to the road, Mrs Riesgraf runs past. She's wearing bright red leggins and a way too tight top, faded letters spelling 'Beth' on its back. A couple of yards ahead of them, she stops next to the small brick wall. She uses it to prop one of her feet onto it and does some of that ridiculous stretching stuff.  
   
'Oi', Danny says, punching Jake's shoulder. Danny is well jealous, and Jake was totally staring at Mrs Riesgraf's arse.  
   
'Wouldn't do that if I were you', Liv says gravely, even though her brother's punch already got Jake to stop. 'Her best mate's a hitman, she can kill you with her thighs.'  
   
It's bullshit of course. Mrs Riesgraf is best mates with JC's Computer Science teacher who may be 'well-fit, I'd totes do him' (Mo's words, not Liv's) but isn't able to kill anyone, except for boring them to death.  
   
Still, Danny snickers.  
   
'That's you told, eh?' he says, and even though it's now Jake's turn to roll his eyes, he smiles as well.  
   
'I can't believe we're paying money for her to go to this place of weirdos', he says.  
   
Now, Liv's brother's husband may be a muppet sometimes, but he has a point.  
   
***  
   
Kiele knew she should have gotten the first train out on Friday. Instead she stayed in the village, ran into Sean at the bakery which was exactly when Sean received a call from the hospital.  
   
Kiele has all the respect in the world for Sean, but he is not the man she would call in a crisis.   
   
That is how, on this lovely Sunday morning, Kiele sits in the waiting room of York's second best hospital, wishing one of the nurses wouldn't just give them an update on Orlando but also some downers for Sean.  
   
Not the best in a crisis, Sean.  
   
'I'll see whether I can find someone', Sean says for the fifth time, and for the fifth time, Kiele is about to put a hand on his arm to stop him from pestering the nurses.   
   
There is no need, however, because it's in that moment that the door opens and Orlando comes in. Next to Kiele, Sean gets to his feet so fast that he nearly overbalances. That makes two if them, Orlando is swaying on his feet, obviously pumped up to the hairline with pain meds.  
   
'Hiya', he says. Politeness ingrained into him, he even raises his left hand, but aborts the waving in favour of using it to steady himself in the doorframe. The plaster cast around his wrist and lower arm knocks dully against the wood.  
   
'What happened?' Kiele asks, because Sean is still too busy fighting down a heart attack.  
   
Orlando frowns deeply, for once it's not proof of his general disapproval of life but of his attempt to focus on Kiele.  
   
'Bloody lorry cut me off, fell off my bike', he says, pulls a face when his words are slightly slurred. 'Don't tell Sean. He worries.'  
   
Kiele can't help but smile at that.  
   
'Well, maybe you shouldn't put him down as your emergency contact, hm?'  
   
Orlando's frown deepens even further, then his eyes find Sean next to Kiele.  
   
'Bugger.'  
   
Like this was the magic word to break the spell, Sean unfreezes and rushes over to Orlando. Orlando rolls his eyes which causes him to sway lightly again, but he holds still when Sean looks him over. From what Kiele can see, it's just an arm in plaster and a couple of scratches on his neck.  
   
Sean finishes his inspection by placing a hand around Orlando's neck. He growls. Orlando growls back. Kiele thinks that this is probably how grizzly bears hold small talk.  
   
'Stop fussing', Orlando says. 'It's not even a complicated fracture.'  
   
'I thought Katy was your emergency contact,' Sean says, which is not really a reply at all.  
   
Orlando grunts.  
   
'Would've been a bit awkward if they called her, given we broke up couple of weeks back', he says matter of factly. Sean growls again, which possibly means that this is new information to him.  
   
'Stop fussing', Orlando instructs again with his slurry voice. He pats Sean's cheek, compensating for the tenderness of the gesture by making the pat just a bit too hard. 'Since you're here: You can take my bike back to JC.'  
   
Trust Orlando, even drugged up, to focus on the really important things.  
   
***  
   
'West, I need to borrow a Sharpie.'  
   
'I'm surprised that you ask and not just help yourself, Gerry.'  
   
'What? That would be rude. What do you take me for?'  
   
'I don't know. I've long ago given up on that question.'  
   
'Now you're being melodramatic.'  
   
'I just thought that it would fit your modus operandi. Burglary, I mean. You already have the breaking and entering part down.'  
   
'So rude.'  
   
'Gerry, you are standing in the middle of my living room and I didn't let you in. What else but breaking and entering would you call this?'  
   
'Practice?'  
   
'Just so you know, I will invest in a state of the art security system in my new flat.'  
   
'First of, so very rude. You continue to go down that road, and I will seriously reconsider your status as my best mate.'  
   
'Please do.'  
   
'Second of, I didn't mean practicing for your flat since you're staying here -'  
   
'I'm moving out next month.'  
   
'And I already know how to get into this place. I'm here, aren't I.'  
   
'Hm.'  
   
'I meant practicing for Orlando's flat.'  
   
'I know this probably won't lead to anything helpful, but why?'  
   
'So I can sneak up on him while he is drugged and asleep.'  
   
'This is not creepy at all.'  
   
'What? No, not that. West, your dirty mind is really something else. Who lets you near impressionable children?'  
   
'The same people who employed you. A fact that is not necessarily working in my favour.'  
   
'Anyroad, I don't want to molest Orlando. Not in his sleep or otherwise. I don't think he's a very considerable lover, do you?'  
   
'I can honestly say that I haven't given this any thought at all.'  
   
'Well, I'm sure for the both of us then. No molestation planned.'  
   
'So relieved to hear that.'  
   
'That's why I need that Sharpie.'  
   
'Excuse me?'  
   
'Keep up, West. The Sharpie I came to you for. I need it.'  
   
'How is that related to breaking into Orlando's?'  
   
'Well, it's obvious, isn't it. He outright refused me to sign my name on his plaster cast. So I'll sneak up on him while he is asleep, and I'll draw penises all over it.'  
   
'Obviously. The Sharpies are in the upper left drawer. Close the door on your way out.'  
   
***  
   
In an act of defiance, Sean makes use of his relative freedom on Tuesday and takes JC's van to drive to Tesco. Because he needs to stock up on Fray Bentos. Because Tuesdays are horrible ever since the kitchen staff decided to make this the day of the week to torture Sean's digestive track with culinary experiments.  
   
A couple of pupils, who didn't go home over Easter and are bored enough to consider Tesco shopping an event, tag along. So does Orlando. It's a regular arrangement, this. Regularly, Sean will have his peace and quiet in the tinned foods aisle while Orlando plays Shepherd dog and makes sure that there are no swordfish duels in the frozen foods section and that the looking at skin mags is kept to a minimum.  
   
However, Orlando is still on pain medication, and even though he refuses to acknowledge it, there is no denying that the pills have a certain... effect on him. Consequently, Sean had to interrupt his contemplations of canned pie in order to keep Jeremy Needham from climbing the toilet paper shelf. And while he sees Orlando every five minutes or so, it's less for sitreps on crises averted and more because Orlando dumps items into Sean's trolley that are increasingly odd in nature.  
   
'I reckon you should have a bit of a lie down when we get back to JC', Sean suggests when Orlando rounds the corner with his latest intended purchase.  
   
'Shut up, I'm fine', Orlando grumbles and not all that gracefully, due to his cast, deposits his haul into Sean's trolley before wandering off again.  
   
Sean looks down at what must be a year's worth of pink candy floss.  
   
'Sure you are, mate.'  
   
***  
   
When there is movement on the couch, Emma very deliberately lowers her head and lets her blue fringe fall over her eyes. It hinders her view on her sketchpad a bit, but it's still worth it.  
   
It has worked for the last hour. While people came and went, no one attempted to talk to her or even tried to sit down on the second armchair close to the window.  
   
Trust Mr Bloom to ruin her perfect score. He takes her bag from the second chair and puts it on the floor, then sits down opposite of her. For a minute or so, she ignores him, but like murder charges or STDs, Mr Bloom won't go away like that. She looks at him through her hair and makes sure that her face reflects exactly what she thinks of his intrusion in general and his grey cardigan in particular.  
   
She  _knows_  what he wants, he wants her to talk about her feelings and then do the thing that all grown ups live for; dismiss her or (worse) pity her.   
   
'What do you want?' she asks anyway. Her words are rude, but her tone of voice hopefully registers just below. She can do without one of his lectures on politeness.  
   
His eyebrows do that thing, like the line on a monitor registering earthquakes, but he doesn't chide her.  
   
'A favour', he says instead.  
   
It surprises her enough to brush her hair out of her face.  
   
'Okay', she says, scepticism settling back in reassuringly after a second. 'What?'  
   
He leans forward, and for a moment  she fears he'll ask her to trust him or some shit like that after all. But he just gestures at the sketchpad resting on her knees.  
   
'You're pretty good.'  
   
She doesn't want his praise; like he knows anything about street art. But her hands betray her, don't turn the pad away from him but tilt it towards him.  
   
'Yeah, cheers', she mutters, shifting in her chair. 'You wanted a favour?'  
   
His eyes look up from the dragons surrounded by lyrics on the paper.  
   
'Yeah', he says, then makes her wait again as his right hand struggles to open the button on the cuff of his left shirt sleeve. When he finally manages it, he starts rolling up the sleeve of his black shirt as well as the cardigan, revealing the plaster cast underneath.  
   
Emma's lips twist into a grin before she can tell them not to.   
   
The cast, originally bright yellow is covered in scribbles. While they vary in size, their shape is all roughly the same.    
   
'You got dicks on your arm, Mr Bloom', Emma says.  
   
Mr Bloom's brows tremor again.  
   
'I'm aware of that', he says dryly. He turns his wrist, so she can see the full extend of the damage, then gestures at her tin box, containing different sized and coloured markers.  
   
'Think you can turn that into something less juvenile?'  
   
She glances up from his wrist to look him in the eyes.  
   
'Will you let me out of rubbish bin duty for a term if I do?'   
   
Mr Bloom's brows are still as he considers the proposal.  
   
'A month', he says and pulls the chair closer to hers.  
   
***  
   
Viggo finds Sean on the football pitch where he is supervising his decimated team's footie practice. Though, to be accurate, both the terms 'decimate' and 'football' are euphemisms here - due to the holidays there are merely four players on the field and what they do is more how Viggo imagines drunken Vikings to play rugby.  
   
That is not the focus of his concern, though.  
   
'I just ran into your mean-spirited protégé ', he says.  
   
Sean lets his whistle fall from his lips.  
   
'Go on, is Orlando, all right? Pain meds and he don't really mix.'  
   
'Oh, I noticed', Viggo says and sees how the amused tone of his voice eases some of the tension in Sean's shoulders. 'He's in the common room, binge-watching Brazilian soap operas. And did I see that right, did he have dicks all over his arm yesterday?'  
   
Sean rubs his forehead.  
   
'That was Gerry.'  
   
'That's a bit harsh.'  
   
Sean merely grunts in agreement. They watch how the player with the number six sewn onto his jersey tackles No. nine to the ground, Nine's face landing in the puddle in front of the goal. Sean ignores that, as well as Six's continued alternative interpretation of footie's no contact rule (he tries to sit on his teammate). Instead he worries his lower lip with his teeth.  
   
Finally, he turns to Viggo.  
   
'I need a favour, mate.'  
   
Viggo shrugs and nods.  
   
'Anything for you, mate.'  
   
Sean grins.  
   
When in the evening, Gerry returns from a very eventful day of trying to force West into bungee jumping with him, he finds the door to his rooms open. He also, upon inspection, finds that the burglar, who let himself in, didn't so much go for the valuables but for Gerry's clothes. Not a single item of clothing is still there, and in the sadly empty drawer where Gerry keeps his underwear an batteries, he only finds a very colourful Easter greeting card. It reads  _'Have fun searching JC for your shit! Sincerely, the Easter bunny'_  
   
***  
   
Eric adopts a wide stance in front of the common room television. He crosses his arms in front of his chest. Orlando squints up at him, then shifts on the sofa, so he can see the telly again. Jasmin Porter and Alisha Faroud look like they want to throw popcorn at Eric. Behind him, two characters in bad makeup continue screeching at one another.  
   
Eric ignores all of this and focusses on Orlando.  
   
   
'Okay, Lando, enough is enough. This is an intervention', Eric says gravely.  
   
Some of Orlando's pre-pain-med sarcasm returns on his face.  
   
'An intervention?' he asks.  
   
Eric nods.  
   
'You're sliding down the slippery slope to addiction, mate.'  
   
At this announcement, Jasmin and Alisha shift their attention from the telly onto their teachers. Orlando looks less than impressed.  
   
'Are you kidding me? I broke my arm six days ago, and I'm taking fuck-', slightly belatedly aware of the underaged audience, he cuts back on the swearing. 'I'm taking Paracetamol.'  
   
Alisha stuffs popcorn into her mouth and crunches it very loudly. Without taking his eyes off Orlando, Eric gestures at the television behind himself.  
   
'I'm not talking about that. I'm talking about this crap.'  
   
'Oi', interjects Jasmin, '"Cumplices de um Resgate" isn't crap, Mr Bana! It got nominated for best telenovela last year.'  
   
Before Eric can say anything, Alisha around a mouthful of popcorn.  
   
'Granted, that's like saying syphilis has been nominated as best STD.'  
   
Jasmin lets out an exasperated sigh and shakes her head. A smile plays around Orlando's lips as he turns back to Eric.  
   
'Not sure whether you obviously watching "Intervention" works in your favour here, mate.'  
   
Alisha snickers and holds her popcorn out to Jasmin. Eric sighs with an amount of exasperation worthy of any soap.  
   
'You're not making it easy for the people who love you, you know.'  
   
Orlando scrunches his brows together and clutches his cardigan over his chest.  
   
'Gosh, I'm so sorry about that', he says, his tone of voice dripping with sarcasm.  
   
'You won't make a good actor, Mr Bloom', Alisha says. Orlando gives her a look that shuts her up and definitely qualifies him as a soap villain. She shuts up.  
   
Eric snaps his fingers to get Orlando's attention back.  
   
'If you mean it, prove it.'  
   
'I'm not gonna off someone for you, mate.'  
   
Eric rolls his eyes and ignores this further proof of Orlando's over exposure to soaps.  
   
'You, me, "Red Rock" tonight.'  
   
'A fuck- A Western, Eric, seriously?'  
   
'Detox, mate.'  
   
While Orlando still wears his poker face, Jasmin sits up.  
   
'Can we come?'  
   
The other three look at her in surprise. She shrugs.  
   
'What? Montgomery Clift was well fit.'  
   
Alisha seems unconvinced.  
   
'The only Western I'd watch is the one with Jake Gyllenhaal.'  
   
Jasmin has to think about it for a moment, and from the sudden blush appearing on her face, it's very obvious when she recalls "Brokeback Mountain"'s more explicit scenes.  
   
Orlando looks back and forth between his pupils and Eric, then his plaster cast arm waves in the kind of fashion a bored king would give his consent to whatever his advisors suggested.  
   
'All right, "Red Rock" and "Brokeback", it's a date', he says and now waves dismissively. 'Now get out of the way, I wanna know who the baby's father is.'  
   
***  
   
'You know I love you, mate', Viggo says, feet dangling from the counter of JC's kitchen.  
   
The reaction to that is predictable. Emily Cunnings Reynolds stops mutilating her fourth chicken egg (at that rate they will have to eat scrambled eggs till Christmas; Viggo has never seen a clumsier 14 year old) in order to retch a bit. Donald Winger stabs himself in the cheek  with his blue topped brush, faced with so much surprise!emotion (come to think of it, Viggo retracts his previous statement re: clumsiness). Hannah Holcroft draws a crooked heart on her egg. And then she accidentally drops it. (No comment. No really, no comment.)  
   
Eric, to whom Viggo is talking of course, takes it as the segue it is intended.  
   
'Yeah, I know, mate', he says calmly, then puffs up his cheeks to blow into the tiny hole at the bottom of his egg.  
   
Viggo nods.  
   
'And you have many a talent that I admire, my friend.'  
   
'Mr M,' Emily says before he can continue, 'No offense, but are you be gross now? Cause then I'll leave. Cause urgh, gross.'  
   
'I don't see how anyone could construe that as offensive ', Viggo says, but thinks that irony is not really a concept she believes in. 'Anyway, Eric, you have many talents. You can repair a car in the middle of the night on an abandoned Southern French road even without a torch -.'  
   
'For real?' Donald, he of the blue cheek, asks.  
   
'For real', Eric confirms in between blows. 'We needed parts from the torch to fix the rental.'  
   
'Nice', says Donald.  
   
'Indeed,' seconds Viggo. 'Also, you're a god on the cricket pitch -'  
   
'Bordering on gross, Mr M', Emily warns him. Hannah flicks red paint at her.  
   
'You're the best impressionist I know, you're as good with a chainsaw, you could easily be a demented serial killer -'  
   
'Don't they use axes, normally', asks Troy Mondelez says as he returns from the walk-in fridge with more eggs. 'Axe murderers, like.'  
   
'Good thinking, Troy', Viggo says, once again remembering too late that sarcasm is lost on the young. 'My point is, Eric, you have many talents and come from a long line of chefs and hoteliers.'  
   
'It's like you know me', Eric says.  
   
'Which is why my latest epiphany baffles me a little bit', Viggo continues, just as - in the middle of the battle field that is the kitchen - Eric's big hand crushes the egg he is holding and egg yolk drips all over his shoe.  
   
'How come that you are such a disaster in the kitchen, Eric?'  
   
***  
   
On Easter Sunday, ca. 1930 (if Bernard is to ne believed, which he probably isn't), a young Ian, future headmaster, and a possibly already grey and disapproving Christopher decided that every once in a while both the teaching staff as well as the pupils should have a bit of fun. Well, probably Ian decided thus and Christopher was too busy scolding a child (or a fellow teacher) to object vehemently enough.  
   
Either way, this is how, according to legend (well, Bernard) Jackson College's Easter egg hunt came about. As tradition dictated it, it is a fierce competition between JC's different houses. Up unto the early 2000s, the victorious house was usually Maggie Smith's. The couple of years after her well deserved retirement, the battle was mostly fought out between Maria Bello, Sean, and Viggo with Maria's house coming out as the winners in the end because Team Bean and Team Mortensen both has saboteurs within their own ranks (them being Sean and Eric, respectively, and their massive sweet teeth).  Since Orlando became house teacher, his kids -trained in guerilla tactics and all kinds of ruthless urban warfare - always end up being the ones with the most booty at the end of the day.  
   
Ian and Christopher are creative with their hiding spots as well. There was one occasion when a pupil found strings of licorice woven through the fence of the outer football pitch, and sweets can be found on the teachers' hat rack, in the rims of Eric's Falcon's wheels, the hollow birch next to the arts building, the rows of Wellies in the boiler room, in between the spaces of the ornate banister of the auditorium, and on every picture frame in the great hall. The more macabre ones - like a row of chocolate bunnies being butt-impaled on JC's heavy iron gate or the row of hung colourful chocolate baby chicken dangling from the big oak tree's lower branches like a warning to all  ~~pirates~~  non-conformist poultry - are usually attributed to Christopher and his scary sense of humour.  
   
This year, not much is different. Eric is sick in the rose bushes after about five kilo of sugar eggs that Viggo's first formers found in the chalk cupboard. There is a small wrestling match between six fourth formers who all storm the locker rooms in search for booty. Orlando's kids win by miles.  
   
The only thing causing some confusion with the judges (Ian, wearing felt bunny ears, and Christopher, wearing a rare smile) is what Jeremy Needham and Lina Durando present them. Granted, they hid about five hundred items of loot. But they are sure that neither of them hid man sized single shoes and several pairs of used boxer shorts, having the initials 'G.B.' sewn into them.  
   
***  
   
The Easter holidays give ample opportunity to catch up on things that otherwise get forgotten about. Janisa Mali and Patricia Hobery contemplate a renaissance of the school newspaper. Robert Jacob laughs at them tells them that that is so 1990s, but they ignore him and start their reporter's career by interviewing the teachers. Robert laughs at them again and decides to spend his time doing something more worthwhile; like wanking, searching for his lost blue sock or staring into space. Robert is a dick.  
   
The first question they pose during breakfast is 'What is the best thing about Easter holidays?' These are the answers Janisa scribbled down on her very professional notepad:  
   
Mr M: Having time to read a good book.  
   
Mr Bana: Sleeping in.  
   
Mr M: I want to change my answer to that one.  
   
Mr Bana: You know I haven't had your foot in my face for a week. Is something wrong, mate. (Relevance?)  
   
Mr Bean: Having time to read a good book. Currently I'm reading "Berlin Noir" by Philipp Kerr which is about (stuff I guess. Look up on Wikipedia)  
   
Mr Bloom: Why do you want to know? If you don't you have anything useful to do, I'm sure I can find something for you to (abort. ABORT.)  
   
Mr McKellen: What I like about the holidays is that it allows me to spend more time with Jackson College's pupils. I think it's a splendid idea to revive the school newspaper.  
   
Mr Butler: Pancakes (probably. Was hard to understand him due to pancakes in his mouth)  
   
Mr West: Packing boxes. (?)  
   
Mr Sinclair: Men's Sana in corpus sano (or something. Latin?)  
   
At that point, Janisa and Patricia realise that Robert is filming them on his phone. They temporarily ignore their reporters ' calling in order to kick his arse.  
   
***  
   
'Every year, man', Eric says with shake of his head.  
   
Orlando momentarily transfers his pitying glare to him and scrunches up his nose at the fondness on his face. Then he turns it back to Sean and Viggo who have been on their knees on JC's lawn and unaware of their audience for the last ten minutes.  
   
'Sean made me climb the ladder to his house's attic, claiming his knee was acting up', Orlando says. 'But this, he can do?'  
   
Eric's eyes never leave Viggo as Viggo cradles a tiny tree in his palms that he just freed from the confinements of a small clay pot.  
   
'Why were you in the attic? Is one of Sean's kids imagining ghosts up there again?'  
   
'He really needs to stop telling his first formers that story about the witchking living up there.'  
   
'Heard  _you_  believed it for two years.'  
   
Eric chuckles when in response, Orlando hits his shoulder with the small hand shovel he brought for Sean.  
   
'Fuck off. You should know better than to believe anything your worse half says', he grumbles because that is just an outrageous lie. 'And it wasn't ghosts. Sean thought he heard rats up there.'  
   
Said self-proclaimed piper of Hameln now sports the biggest smile of the universe, matched by Viggo's, when Viggo lowers the tiny tree into the hole they dug.  
   
'We have a janitor for rats and stuff like that, you know that, right?' Eric asks mildly.  
   
Orlando scoffs.  
   
'Yeah, we also have a whole array of groundsmen and gardeners, too. Never stopped those two muppets', he replies, then adds in a fairly good impression of Eric's voice, 'You know that, right?'  
   
Of course Eric knows that. He also knows the names (yes, Viggo gives them names, like that comes as a surprise to anyone) of all the Basque country oaks and silver birches that had a loving home on Viggo's kitchen counter for the last couple of months. And he is not that often in Sean's flat, but he would bet the scowl on Orlando 's face, completely unfitting for the perfect blue sky, that Sean's kitchen looked the same.  
   
'Oi', Eric hollers, possibly a bit too loudly, considering Sean and Viggo are only fifteen yards away. The two self-appointed park designers / tree huggers turn their heads. Eric points at Orlando. 'Lando wants to know whether you need a hand!'  
   
The shovel once again makes acquaintance with Eric's shoulder.  
   
***  
   
There are a couple of wooden tables and benches standing just outside the 'Prancing Pony'. During the summer months it is hardly possible to find room there, it's only surprising that none of the villagers or passing tourists (not to mention JC's staff) have adopted the throwing-a-towel -on-it tactics known from holiday resorts yet.  
   
But even today (a typical day in April; blue sky and biting busts of wind) they are well frequented during lunch hour. One is taken hostage by a group of female hikers in candy coloured tracksuits, one is occupied by an elderly villager who uses the table to examine his Jack Russell terrier for ticks (an admirable even if rather gross endeavour), and a third has been  taken over by a bunch of teachers - namely Gerry, Dom, Sean, Karl, and Dominic.  
   
Their feet warmed by Boris under the table and munching peanuts, Sean and Karl find them entertained by Dom and Gerry. Earlier in the day, the two of them have taken it upon them to accompany (though 'drag' would be the more appropriate choice of verb there) Dominic to the nearest IKEA.  
   
Laughingly, Dom is now telling the story of how Dominic got lost ('unsuccessfully tried to lose them') in the china section and how they unanimously (well, two to one) decided that the new couch for Dominic's new flat should be vomit-coloured.  
   
Dominic endures the weight of Gerry's arm on his shoulder, nurses his pint and stares forlornly at the table. He could have spared himself all this misery if he'd just stolen some of the Pony's furniture. Sure, it is slightly weather-worn and this one has 'JC sux' carved into it. But Dominic would have been able to make do. Besides, it's not like he doesn't share the sentiment.  
   
***  
   
For all Gerry's faults (and he is perfectly aware that there are a lot of them. Seriously, when God made Gerry, it's like he took 90% of the parts from the spare-parts-from-broken-furniture section, shamefully hiding in a corner of every IKEA), his singing voice is not one of them. He has a fantastic singing voice. So, when it's his turn to collect pupils from York's central station with JC's mini bus whose radio turn out to be broken, he entertains them via belting out songs from The Phantom Of The Opera. They are so moved by it, some of them climb out of the bus back at JC with tears running down their cheeks.  
   
For all Orlando's faults (and of course he has some. He is human and it doesn't take a Latin teacher to know that erare humanum est, so leave him the fuck alone), he is a pretty expert knitter. He started learning it because Sean said he couldn't do it, and he continues to do it because the hats and socks he knits make for fantastic presents. The only thing that bugs him about it is that Viggo actually  _wears_  the bobble hats in bright orange or neon yellow that Orlando gives him.  
   
For all Eric's faults (not that he has any. He is pretty damn perfect. Just ask Viggo.), he can go without sleep for three nights in a row. It comes in handy when Viggo needs a hand, wrangling the bunch of migrating night owls he calls his kids, and if there is the need for long distance night drives. However, letting him go without it for longer might end you up with Eric crouching on the curb on a deserted highway in the outback, having a bit of a nervous breakdown, while Viggo tries to reassure him that there aren't hungry dingoes in the back of their rental car, trying to eat his face.  
   
For all Sean's faults (and let's face it, he has none. Not that the author of this piece is biased or anything), there is no one who looks more ruggedly handsome with the tiny daisy chain crown sitting on his head which little Fiona Sobeko made for him.  
   
***  
   
Bernard returns from his holiday on Teneriffa at just the right moment - just in time for Sean's birthday party.  
   
It is the opposite of a surprise party, and Bernard more than once bemoaned the fact that there is no precise term for this kind of celebration. The long-term preparation that went into this can possibly only be rivaled by the planning of an American wedding, although neither a seating chart nor bridesmaids' dresses exist. Bernard knows, he repeatedly suggested the latter and was rudely rebuked by  ~~bridezilla~~  Orlando and called suicidal by Dom.  
   
Dom's involvement in this actually baffles Bernard to a certain degree. Dom usually goes through great lengths and spares no efforts to wheedle out of anything that even remotely resembles work. Once he even pretended to have bird flu due to one of Gerry's bio experiments having gone wrong to get out of chaperoning a trip to Kent. (Or maybe it wasn't bird flu but being allergic to children? Come to think of it, maybe it wasn't Dom but Bernard himself; his memory is a bit hazy on that.)  
   
The point is, it should be impossible to recruit Dom for any sort of party planning. That of course doesn't take Orlando into account who, in the mid nineties (and possibly very stoned on Dom's weed) appointed Dom to be his second in command, a job Dom has yet to extract himself from.  
   
For Orlando to put this much intense and serious thought into something that could have been just a pleasant booze-up in the Pony, seems perfectly natural. Even when he was only eleven years old, Orlando had a knack for organizing things - though Bernard would have guessed he'd rather use it to stage an anarchistic uproar than an evening in one of York's fancier burlesque dancing establishments.  
   
Now, Bernard hasn't been present during the official planning meetings (as Dom informed him 'because, and Lando means that in the nicest way possible, you are a muppet and completely useless' - Bernard somewhat questions Orlando's  _and_  Dom's diplomatic skills), but from what he learned from conversations overheard by the copying machine, aforementioned visit to the place of the busty naked ladies was just part of the overall celebrations.  
   
The original plan involved Orlando taking Sean out on his actual birthday, which was on Monday, and them taking their bikes up to Whitby. One reason for that obviously are the excellent fish and chips one can get there, but Sean also loves Whitby because, as Orlando puts it, 'he harbours the idiotic delusion that he could have been a fisherman, even though he is more afraid of boats than a kid growing up during the air raids would be of planes'.  
   
The fact that Orlando thinks that his best mate  could, at best, play the role of the white whale but never that of Ahab (Bernard is taking some liberties here, but the literary reference was too good to pass up) of course doesn't mean Orlando doesn't cater to every one of Sean's wishes. Or he would have, hadn't his hubris taken up a lorry on the highway and lost, ending him up with a broken arm and six weeks ' worth of forced biking abstinence.  
   
The other fact (and it may be worth pointing out that Bernard tends to use that term in the loosest sense that may or may not actually have nothing to do with factuality) is that Sean isn't really into complicated birthday bashes, something that everyone (not just Orlando) has studiously ignored for the last couple of decades. Bernard is on the fence as to why they always choose Sean's of all birthdays to make a big do out if it. He supposes it is a combination of April being the month of spring, awakening energy in everyone, and Sean being quite entertaining when he is embarrassed.  
   
Orlando, of course, finds it less entertaining, not so say charming, that Sean once again is being reduced to blushing (in a very manly way, of course) and mumbling 'Really, you shouldn't have '. Orlando finds it annoying.  
   
'Really, you shouldn't have,' Dom parrots in a fairly accurate imitation of Sean's thick Yorkshire accent that manages to get across his outrage at so much gratefulness quite nicely. However, Orlando's accompanying glare gets deflected by the pair of quite impressive breasts the lap dancer tries to smother Sean with. Dom comes through as a first lieutenant and taps her on the shoulder and gestures her to free the sightline for Orlando.  
   
Sean's smile switches from mildly awkward to soft, and it might just be the shady lighting and the distracting amount of glitter, but Bernard could swear that Orlando's glare loses at least 10% of its wattage. He almost looks like just a regular homicidal psycho now.  
   
Because if life were 'Moby Dick' (which it isn't, Bernard just can't think of a better comparison after half a gallon of champagne), and Sean was the big white whale (not that Bernard is suggesting Sean was fat), then of course Orlando would be Ahab. All the rage and single-minded focus on just one being. Hate, love, there is little difference.  
   
'Just too bad you can't, even if your life depended on it, grow a proper Shenandoah', Bernard says to Orlando regretfully.  
   
Again, this scene ends with everyone (including the stripper) looking at Bernard funny.  
   
***  
   
'I can't believe we're paying a mint for you to go here.'   
   
At her sort-of-stepfather's/brother-in-law's words, Liv turns around. Jake is staring up Jackson College's main building. He is gripping her holdall that he just pulled from the boot of Danny's car - all helpful and everything as if to make up for Liv's brother who fell asleep on the passenger seat even before they left the airport's parking lot. Danny's goodbye to his sister consisted of a mumbled 'm tryin' to kip 'ere, shove off'. And people wonder where Liv gets her good manners from.  
   
'No wonder everyone in this place is bonkers', Jake continues, and he isn't even looking at the weird rugby match Mr Mortensen and some other idiots are engaged in on the lawn. Instead he uses his free hand to point upwards. 'Even the school crest is off the charts.'  
   
Liv squints up at the big poncy sign hanging over JC's  main entrance.  
   
'What? It's not like someone drew a dick on it again. Or Mr Bana's Ford.'  
   
Instantly, Jake switches his gaze from the sign to her.  
   
'Did you have something to do with that?'   
   
'Like I'd do something so silly', Liv snorts and reaches for her holdall. 'Mr Bana prolly did it himself, didn't he. - You gonna give me my bag and do one already?'  
   
Jake lets go of the bag's handle, and because he is a dick, he smirks when it's sudden heavy weight slightly unbalances her. He stuffs his hands into his (well, technically it's Danny's) hoddie, but still asks,  
   
'You want a hug?'  
   
'Ew, no?'  
   
'That sunburn still bothering you, is it?' Jake asks with that smug smile of his that should get him slapped on a regular basis.  
   
Liv ignores the question and instead gestures back at the car with her dozing brother.  
   
'Why don't you get lost and get Danny to bed.' A split-second too late she hears the involuntary double-meaning in her wording, but not before Jake's grin goes impossibly wide.  
   
 'Ew, Jake', she chastises him and shakes her head. 'I meant to sleep. Cause he is well knackered.'   
   
Jake is still grinning, and she doesn't care that he is her brother's husband, she wishes he'd get run over by a lorry or something.   
   
 'Get lost already.'  
   
Jake squeezes her shoulder before he turns around, not the one where the skin is angry and red, though, and since he paid for her holiday and all, she lets him get away with it and even goes so far as curl her lips upwards a fraction.  
   
'Be good, all right?' he says.  
   
Liv rolls her eyes again.  
   
'Yeah, yeah.'  
   
Jake chuckles, then walks back to the car and to Liv's brother whose face is mushed against the window.  
   
Liv only gets as far as JC's doorstep where she nearly runs into the next annoying adult, aka Mr Bean. He is wearing his footie kit and looks her up and down.  
   
'Welcome back, Liv. You look like you had fun on - Mauritius, was it?'  
   
Mauritius was fab - Jake turned up his charm, the one that always makes Liv want to vom, but it got them massively upgraded, like, everywhere. Liv got a brill room all for herself, right by the pool, and she's never seen her brother smile so much. Even with all three of them getting sunburned like crazy, it was proper awesome.   
   
'Yeah, was all right.' She shrugs and pushes past him through the entrance. 'Back now, though.'  
   
***  
   
On the evening of the last day of the Easter holidays, JC's book club meets in Sean's room. All members are accounted for except for Nadine Walters who missed her connection flight and is stranded in Dubai where, as she texts Sophia Brumshagen, she is reading the second Twilight book again.   
   
Secretly, Sean is relieved that she isn't there because of the tradition they have for any book club meeting after the holidays. Instead of Sean and Bernard taking turns in reading out parts of books they democratically agreed on before, after-holiday -meetings consist of everyone talking at random of what they read during their free time. And while Bernard has a very serious opinion on the whole vampire/werewolf issue, Sean would rather he discussed that with Gerry on their own time; he has heard enough about on this topic to last him a lifetime.  
   
The biggest surprise this evening isn't that Jonas Natuzi read something that she calls 'historical romance' but really is costume porn. It isn't even that Nathan Phelps read a book at all (Sean suspects it's his first ever. He is certain he only joined because he has a crush on Alisha Faroud, like half of the other members). No, the biggest surprise is Mika Grand's shy admission that she didn't read anything at all, but brought a couple of poems she wrote. A little reluctant, but then with a quiet voice and red cheeks, she reads two of them out for them.  
   
'Shit,' Alisha says after, drawing out the vowel impossibly long and turning the expletive into praise with her tone of voice and arched brows. 'That was totally brill, Miks!'  
   
Mika's cheeks turn even redder and she fiddles with the string of her hoodie.  
   
'Cheers, mate', she mumbles, smiling.  
   
***  
   
When Mr Bean's A-level group enters his classroom early on that first Monday after the holidays, they are faced with a somewhat scary sight. Granted it's not as traumatizing as Mr  Bean's description of Napoleonic battlefields which are as detailed as they are gruesome (legend has it that he caused a sixth former to faint with them in the 1990s).   
   
But to come back to class to find your teacher standing behind his desk, holding onto its wooden edge with one hand while clutching his chest with the other? What are they supposed to think? He is old, he is probably having a heart attack or something!  
   
It's only that frightful second later that they hear him inhale sharply only to continue laughing helplessly. The reason for his non-heart attack then is obvious because it is standing right in front of him on his desk:  
   
Neatly, somewhat resembling soldiers, the potted cacti are lined up there. They  keep migrating from Mr Bloom's classroom to Mr Bean's and back; so their presence in itself isn't surprising. However, their clay pots aren't a collective brown anymore but individually wrapped in plaster - the one with little pictures on it, like you get it at the local vet.  
   
***  
   
Five unusual conversations that happened on April, 25th:  
   
#1 - Over breakfast, Eric and Sean get into a bit of an argument about Charlie Chaplin’s “Modern Times”. It got very loud and aggressive for no reason that either of them can recall later on.  
   
#2 - Orlando finds himself surprised by Dominic West during a midday fag break. Theirs is not actually a conversation, but Orlando (smoking outside the science building) watching with interest how Dominic very nearly sets Amanda Peshow on fire in his classroom. West puts out the flames and when he opens the window to let out the smoke, Orlando raises a hand to give him a friendly wave.  
   
#3 - Cate and Beth break the law in the parking lot around tea time. Or maybe it’s not technically illegal to break into your own car? In any case, Cate locked her keys inside her Peugeot, and it turns out that Beth can remedy that in under two minutes. Cate thanks her and asks her whether she was a professional car thief in a previous life.  
   
#4 - Gerry and Harry have a very loud conversation in the gents of the ‘Pony’, both of them in separate stalls (Harry is there for the obvious reasons, Gerry because he wants to read the sports section in his paper in peace without West lighting his paper on fire). It is not conducted in the most productive way, given that Gerry is speaking Scots and Harry replies in Latin.  
   
#5 - Viggo, miraculously occupying ALL the available space on Eric’s four seater sofa, means to order pizza for tea. Eric watches half and episode of ‘Hogan’s Heroes’ with the volume muted before he texts Viggo that the marital problems of Giovanni aren’t really for Viggo to solve. Also, he wants extra garlic on his pizza.  
   
***  
   
'You ever think of teachers doing it?' Susa asks in that voice of hers that is supposed to feign thoughtfulness.  
   
Liv curls her lips in distaste.  
   
'Totally', says Jackie sarcastically, then pulls a face when the screw she picked doesn't fit into the pre-drilled hole of her new nightstand -to-be.  
   
'Doing what?' asks Mo, not looking up from the important task of painting her toenails green.  
   
'If you get any of that stuff on my duvet, I'm gonna slap ya', Liv informs her reasonably.  
   
'It', repeats Susa, this time meaningfully, and when Mo still doesn't look up, she specifies, 'Sex.'  
   
Now Mo does look up and arches her - perfectly pencilled (they are just hanging in Liv's room, who does she think is invited? Royalty?) - eyebrows.  
   
'Eeew, Susa!'  
   
Liv shakes her head and continues braiding her hair.  
   
'Susa's asking cause she wants to do Mr Bloom,' Jackie says, giving the screw a nudge with the back of her screwdriver.  
   
'Eeew!' Mo repeats.  
   
'I don't!' protests Susa.  
   
'You so do.'  
   
'I fucking don't!'  
   
Liv looks at Jackie and smirks.  
   
'She said so, this morning.'  
   
Susa crab-crawls over in order to kick Liv in the side with her naked foot.  
   
'Shut up, I didn't! All I said was that his new cardigan doesn't look as shitty as the other ones.'  
   
She looks over her shoulder at Mo, obviously expecting back up. Mo, however, temporarily abandons her right foot's nails in favour of waving her tiny brush around.  
   
'Why would you even notice he has a new cardigan?'  
   
'Because -', Susa starts.  
   
'She wants to shag him', Jackie finishes for her. She laughs when Susa tries to kick Liv again, because unlike her (on the safe bed), Liv is within reach. Liv catches her foot mid-air.  
   
'He won't, though', she says.  
   
'Yeah, obv', says Mo with a serious nod. 'Cause that'd totally be breaking the law.'  
   
Susa looks kinda disappointed for a second, then she frees her foot and sits down next to Liv.  
   
'Yeah, that', Liv says, 'also cause people over thirty don't have sex anymore.'  
   
'True', says Jackie.  
   
'For real?' asks Susa.  
   
'Yeah', Liv replies, fixing the braid she just finished with a clip. 'When Jake turned thirty, he and my brother totally stopped doing it.'  
   
'You really are the biggest mug in the world', replies Jackie.  
   
'No, it's true,' chimes in Mo, once more back to painting swirls on her big toe's nail. 'My parents totally stopped doing it.'  
   
'That's cause they hate each other,' Liv points out. 'Not cause they're old. Danny and Jake are at it like idiots all the time. I have to walk around with headphones and blinders when I'm home. It's disgusting.'  
   
Mo and Jackie make sounds of commiseration while Susa (who has a thing for Jake, cause she fancies everyone and has no taste) makes a thoughtful 'Hm'.  
   
'Besides, Mr Bean is totally shagging Viola Brumgate's mum', Jackie says.  
   
'You what?!' Mo is so scandalized, she nearly stabs herself in the eye with her brush.  
   
'Yeah, I heard it from Tasha, who has it from Vic, and Vic is Viola's best mate, so she would know.'  
   
'Vic is also a massive liar', Liv says. 'Mr Bean prolly just ran into Viola's mum at the bakers, and she's making a sex scandal out of it.'  
   
'But for real', Susa says, as per usual studiously ignoring all contact with reality, 'Can you imagine having a teacher as your stepdad? What'd you talk about over tea, eh? The price of chalk?'  
   
'Yeah, cause teachers don't have lives', Liv says, making sure sarcasm is dripping from her voice, so even Susa gets it.  
   
'Mr Bloom doesn't ' Jackie points out.  
   
'I'm sure he has hobbies', Mo says, flopping onto her belly, so she can pick out a new colour of nail polish from Liv's nightstand. 'Like, I dunno, his motorbike and, like, dusting books or something.'  
   
'Like murdering first formers and burying their bodies under the oak tree, more like.'   
   
'He's doesn't -' Susa starts defending him against Jackie, but, when met with three equally broad smirks, she doesn't finish. 'Whatever.'  
   
'Tell you what, though', Jackie says and gets started on the next screw. 'Mr Bana and Mr Mortensen are totally doing it.'  
   
'You're only figuring that out now?' asks Liv.  
   
'Who told you? Vic?' asks Mo.  
   
Susa doesn't ask anything, she is too busy staring at Jackie with her mouth open.  
   
'Not Vic, Alisha. She saw them snogging in the theatre's prop room. Like, properly.'  
   
'Ew.'  
   
'Ew.'  
   
'Hm.'  
   
Liv stops braiding and looks at Susa and the stupid smile on her face .  
   
'Seriously, mate, you have issues.'  
   
***  
   
(The following recollection of four situations that happened in the last month did or would make Mo stuff her fingers in her ears, Jackie snicker, Liv roll her eyes,  and Susa be disappointed because in the RPF she is totally not writing about her teachers it's so much better, like, proper romantic and shit.  
   
Just fyi.)  
   
'So, I ran into Gerry', Eric says and watches how Viggo fights with two entangled plastic bags before stuffing their purchases into them.  
   
'Yeah? Where is he then?' asks Viggo and growls at a packet of biscuits that is trying to be difficult.  
   
Eric pays the woman behind the cash register. He has no idea why she is so impatient; it's 7.54 p.m. on a Tuesday and the store is deserted, save for Gerry and a couple of roaming fourth formers.  
   
'I left him to his fruits. He saw me and shoved an egg plant and a banana in my face, asking me which one looked more like a penis.'  
   
Viggo chuckles, and Eric ignores the look he gets from the cashier together with his 0.36£ change.  
   
'Is he doing sex ed again?' Viggo asks, now struggling with a melon.  
   
'When is he not?' Eric counters.  
   
'I think he's just scared that one of the girls falls pregnant, and the school board will blame the bio department.'  
   
'That's idiotic', says the cashier. She is chewing her gum like she is trying to punish it for war crimes.  
   
Both Viggo and Eric hum in agreement.  
   
'You know, you could help', Viggo then says to Eric, fighting tuna cans now.  
   
Obligingly, Eric picks up a cucumber. Instead of stuffing it in a bag, he holds it under Viggo's nose.  
   
'Does that look like my penis?'  
   
Viggo barks out a laugh.  
   
'I meant help me, not Gerry. Was that supposed to be a pick up line?'  
   
Eric drops the cucumber into the bag Viggo is holding open.  
   
'Didn't know I needed one.'   
   
His smile is much more private than the situation warrants.  
   
'You should see a doctor', the cashier says, 'if your penis is green and shaped like that.'  
   
\---  
   
'I hate Thursdays', Viggo says with a groan and mutes his television. 'There is just absolutely nothing on TV.'  
   
Eric sits down next to him on the couch again.  
   
'Good thing you've not being dramatic about it.'  
   
Viggo (dramatically) tosses the remote control at Eric.  
   
'Don't mock my pain.'  
   
'I'm not. But I told you an hour ago that we could just watch Netflix and chill.'  
   
Viggo rubs a hand over his (violated by horrible TV) eyes.  
   
'You know I don't like canned television. TV on demand is a violation of the way you're supposed to experience time and -' he interrupts himself mid-rant and even stops rubbing his eyes. '"Netflix and chill"?'  
   
Eric laughs and shifts his weight on the couch, so his shoulder is touching Viggo's. He shakes his head, though.  
   
'I didn't mean it like that. I wanted to watch 'Jessica Jones'.'  
   
Viggo doesn't question this. Eric's dedication to Krysten Ritter is hardly news.  
   
'Yeah okay', he agrees lightly, but then adds, 'Or we could -'  
   
He doesn't finish the sentence but just nudges Eric's shoulder. Eric glances back at him, and Viggo arches a brow, rests his hand loosely on Eric's thigh.  
   
Eric licks his lips, tastes salt and vinegar crisps there, smiles.  
   
'Yeah, all right', he agrees easily, his hand covering Viggo's and pushing it higher.  
   
Which is exactly the moment when someone knocks on Viggo's door. It's Jackie Pickner, previously in the day having won fame and admiration for her ability to eat nine hotdogs for tea. The first thing she does when Viggo opens, is vomit onto his shoes.  
   
\---  
   
'Sean abandoned you, mate?' Eric asks as he crouches down on the grass next to Viggo. His hand rests on Viggo's shoulder, and he has no idea how, but Viggo managed to get fresh soil on there, too.  
   
'Got abducted, more like,' Viggo answers, wipes his sweaty forehead with the back of his sleeve and naturally gets mud there as well.  
   
'Aliens? Orlando?'  
   
Viggo chuckles and pats the soil surrounding the miniature tree he just planted with a lover's touch.  
   
'Surprisingly, no to both. Karl showed up and brought Boris. And you know how it gets with Sean's face being close enough to reach.'  
   
'Karl's dog tried to french him again?'  
   
Viggo snickers.  
   
'Define "tried to". Sean better get himself some mouthwash after that.'  
   
'I'd have opted for a tetanus shot.'  
   
'I reckon he got that renewed after Jeremy Needham tried to bite him last month.'  
   
Eric laughs because how is this his life, then shrugs it off and sits himself down on the small  bag of yet unopened soil still waiting to be put to use. Viggo gestures at him with his miniature shovel.  
   
'You too good now to sit on the grass?'  
   
'It's damp', Eric reasons. 'I don't much care for a wet arse.' He stretches out his legs and nudges Viggo's calf with his foot. 'What is it you planted there?'  
   
Viggo's face lights up when he looks down at the little thing, and then back at Eric.  
   
'It's a sugar maple', he says, a pride in his eyes like it was a two foot diameter oak, not what very much looks like a tiny crooked twig.  
   
'And what's that gonna look like when it's grown up?' Eric asks.  
   
For the next quarter of an hour or so, Viggo tells him. After nearly falling over because expansive gestures and crouching aren't the best combination, he sits down next to Eric and he talks about the texture of the bark, the taste of maple syrup, the sound of the wind rustling autumn coloured leaves, how that leaf is on the Canada's flag - from where he digresses into politics.  
   
And Eric listens, silently decides they need to have pancakes with maple syrup for tea, and thinks that he wouldn't even have minded getting his butt wet for this.  
   
'- and it's blatantly obvious how Canadian voting laws make so much more sense than the US American counterpart', Viggo finishes with a nod. Then, after a moment of silence, he crinkles his brows contemplatively, causing the dried mud there to crumple and trickle down into the collar of his shirt.  
   
'Why were we talking about this?'   
   
'I wanted to know', says Eric, which is true enough because everything Viggo talks about is of interest to him.  
   
Viggo's gaze fixes on a spot just below Eric's eyes, and he smiles as he reaches up.  
   
'You got a smudge there', he says quietly as his thumb rubs at the spot, the knuckles of his other fingers resting against Eric's cheek.  
   
Eric holds still and looks back at him, Viggo's hair tousled and sweaty and the amount of dirt on his face enough to make for very heavy war paint.  
   
'What would I do without you', he says humorously.  
   
'Yeah, you're always welcome ', Viggo replies in very much the same cadence.  
   
'Oh for fuck's sake!' someone else yells in a very different voice. It's  Liv Steele, standing on the walkway closest to the lawn, wearing her football kit that is possibly even dirtier than Viggo's clothes, and a frown that could rival Orlando's.  
   
'Get a bloody room!'  
   
\---  
   
It's Thursday, just after the first period, and in his classroom, Eric is immersed in sorting his (considerable) collection of calculators when Viggo comes in. In lieu of a hello, he stands in front to the wall with portraits of Wiles, Boole, and Noether and slowly bangs his head against the bricks.  
   
'I hate my fourth form. I hate them', he mutters. 'Please shoot me.'  
   
'Nah', Eric declines, putting a slightly damaged Sharp EL W506 into the drawer of his desk. 'I got half an hour to distract you from your misery, though.'  
   
Viggo, still with his forehead leaned against the wall, makes a grunting sound that possibly indicates interest in Eric's counter proposal.  Eric wipes his hands on his slacks.   
   
'A drive, onion pie, or sex?'  
   
Viggo thinks about it for a moment as he straightens up and holds the door open, waiting for Eric to follow.  
   
'The latter. That pie made me burp all morning.'  
   
***  
   
On Friday, April, 28th...  
   
... Orlando spends 23 minutes reassuring Mrs Ryan who is worried that her son Robert might chuck himself off of JC's bell tower because Maria Dayton broke up with him again. When Orlando later tells the story in the 'Pony', he calls her a massive muppet. JC doesn't even  _have_  a bell tower.  
   
... Eric spends 34 minutes on the phone to America, trying to order new rims for his Falcon, before Viggo shows him he can order them through Amazon.  
   
... Gerry spends 45 minutes yelling at his brother on the phone. When Dom, who happens to walk past and hears phrases such as 'You're a numpty' and 'You should be disinherited' echoing through the halls, knocks to enquire, Gerry informs him that they are having an argument about classic LEGO vs. 'That shit they are trying to sell us'. It being Gerry, Dom doesn't question this any further and leaves him to it.  
   
...West spends 56 minutes on the phone with his insurance company, trying to convince them that he is not a serial arsonist. In the meantime, the potatoes he forgot on his stove turn into lumps of coal and nearly set off the fire alarm.  
   
   
... Robert Ryan spends 67 minutes on the phone to his mum because after he tells her that he and Maria are back on, his mum has a a LOT  to say about this.  
   
...Karl calls Beth to ask her out to go rock climbing over the weekend, ignoring Boris's disapproving look (weekends in his mind are for ling exploratory walks in the woods, not for sport-dates with a gym teacher who is trying to steal Boris's man). Beth says yes. The phone call lasts 120 seconds.  
   
***  
   
'Ahoy, West!'  
   
'What do you want?'  
   
'Dunno, for you to master the art of small talk? How about "hello, Gerry, my good friend, how are you and what can I do you for"?'  
   
'Right. I'm hanging up now. I'm busy.'  
   
'No, don't. I've been thinking about your move tomorrow.'  
   
'Gerry, let me reiterate what I've told you when you said you are going to brick me in to keep me from moving: I have access to explosives and I will use them. On your face.'  
   
'Nah, you're all right. I'm okay with you moving out.'  
   
'Because my new place has a balcony and you want to spit on people walking past below?'  
   
'That's neither here nor there. But no, I have had some thoughts on the logistics.'  
   
'You are not gonna help me move.'  
   
'What? Why?'  
   
'I hired people to do that for me. Professionals. People who won't use my boxes with fragile lab equipment to play "giant LEGO stack-up".'  
   
'That was just a joke, mate!'  
   
'Was it really, Gerry?'  
   
'Aye, no. Whatever. I'm over that. But I have been talking to Eric -'  
   
'Oh God.'  
   
'And we both agree that your new place is practically round the corner from here.'  
   
'Yes, so?'  
   
'You know how Eric and I are members in the local pony club -'  
   
'I didn't know that. Whyever would you - no, wait, I retract the question. I don't care.'  
   
'Eric gave me a membership for my birthday last year, so fir Christmas, I arranged for him to sponsor "Al Capony" - he is 24 years old and the ugliest Shetland pony you have ever -'  
   
'Gerry, is there a point to this story? Not that I don't usually appreciate your meandering storytelling -'  
   
'You do?'  
   
'I was being polite.'  
   
'You're not very good at it.'  
   
'I'm genuinely sorry for hurting your delicate feelings, mate. But I am kind of busy. I'm moving tomorrow, remember?'  
   
'Yeah, hence my call. So, Eric and I think we can help you with your move. We were thinking, we could borrow Al Capony and Pony Soprano -'  
   
'Who names these poor animals?'  
   
'- and we could put them in front of that little cart the club has and save you the cost for a moving van.'  
   
'You want to drag my possessions through the village in a pony cart?'  
   
'Aye.'  
   
'Don't you need a driver's license for that.'  
   
'Nah, don't think so. Can't be that difficult, can it? And Pony Soprano has this issue where he bolts randomly mostly under control now.'  
   
'I'm hanging up now.'  
   
'So, when should the four of us be ready tomorrow? Nineish?'  
   
'Bye, Gerry.'  
   
***  
   
Because West would rather not get evicted for 'endangerment of the public' or 'utter insanity' (again), Eric's and Gerry's gangster ponies played no part in his move. He didn't take Sean up on the offer to hire some of the sixth formers from Sean's house, even though Sean said he would make him a good price and no, this is nothing like child prostitution, don't be absurd. West also kindly declined Dom's offer to help with the hot water since he heard from Orlando and the Bloom/Monaghan flat flood of '03. And when Viggo, without looking up from his mobile, asked him whether he should look up who the patron saint for moving was, West did not ask him to put in a good word but merely enquired whether Viggo, being an R.E. teacher shouldn't know that without the help of Google.  
   
West did none if those things. Because he is smart, and he likes his new flat. Also because - when the guys he hired are done around five and bugger off - he doesn't have to order food for everyone. Instead he can make use of his newly acquired balcony and his DIY barbecue grill to make himself tea under the blue sky. His new neighbor to the left (the suspiciously handsome Mr Elba) even promises to not tell the landlady about it in exchange for a steak.  
   
A good day, April, 30th.  
   
   
***  
   
They are sitting on the sidelines of the football field, Mo and Susa and Liv and Alisha and Jackie, and they are kinda half heartedly watching practice when Tobias Shanks stops trying to kill the goalie with his shots and comes over. They aren't really mates with him, but Mo kinda knows him from when she hooked up with Rob and he's one of Rob's mates. He stops in front of them.  
   
'Oi, Liv', he says instead of a hello because he's a dick.  'Your gay dads - '  
   
Liv hasn't even looked up from her phone, but she doesn't need to because Jackie and Alisha instantly close ranks (Jackie cause she likes picking fights and Alisha cause she totally fancies the pants off of Liv, though Mo has no idea why).  
   
'They aren't her dads', says Jackie.  
   
'They aren't gay', says Alisha.  
   
Tobias looks back and forth between them.  
   
'Huh?' he says, and his face looks like someone gave him a slap.  
   
Alisha sits up and gives him one of her smiles that is both flirty and 'Imma fuck you up'.  
   
'Danny's Liv's brother, see, and he's married to Jake.' She then turns to Liv. 'So, Jake's your brother-in-law, right?'  
   
Liv still doesn't look up from her phone but pulls up her upper lip, which means yes and eew.  
   
'He's old enough, right?' Susa says. 'Like thirty or something? He could be your dad.'  
   
'Don't be disgusting', Liv mutters.  
   
'No, but technically, yeah?'  
   
'Would've had to start early', Mo chimes in. 'Like, our age or something.'  
   
Liv once again pulls a face, and Mo and Alisha grin at one another.  
   
'Yeah, uh, anyway', says Tobias. Mo had kinda forgotten he was there. He looks proper awkward now. 'Your brother and your...' he stutters, changes course,  'his...' he stumbles again, then settles on 'husband -'  
   
Mo snorts.  
   
'Wow, that sounds well gay when you say it.'  
   
'Jake's not gay, yeah?' Susa says, once again proving that she is a bit dim. 'He's bi, right, Liv?'  
   
'Whatev',' Liv says.  
   
Susa nods, but then adds, 'You know, I was wondering -'  
   
'Oh, here we go', murmurs Alisha and rolls her eyes. She's a proper bitch most of the time, but it makes Liv smile (well, frown a little less), which, Mo guesses, is the whole point.  
   
Susa of course is oblivious to that.  
   
'Shut up. I was wondering - if you only shag blokes, yeah, and you marry a bloke, are you still bi?'  
   
'Yes', says Alisha.  
   
'Yeah', says Liv.  
   
'Yeah?' asks Jackie.  
   
'Like, you  _just_  shagged blokes', repeats Susa, like that hadn't been clear the first time.  
   
'Still', says Alisha.  
   
'Jake didn't just shake blokes, did he?' Mo asks.  
   
Liv finally drops her phone in her lap.  
   
'Can we not talk about Jake shagging anyone? Ew.' She shudders which makes Alisha chuckle which Liv ignores completely. Instead she narrows her eyes and looks up at Tobias (Mo had forgotten about him again. He's not the most charismatic person.).  
   
'What do you want?'  
   
Tobias stares at her for a second or two, like, caught between awkward and just terrified.  
   
'Uhm. Yeah, so your -' his search for words lasts a whole five seconds or so, until he finds one. 'Your family, they own a garage, right?'  
   
Technically, Mo knows, it's Danny who owns the garage, but she's not gonna start this whole thing again, she's already bored with Tobias.  
   
'So?' Liv asks, frown deepening minutely.  
   
Tobias scratches his head.  
   
'Yeah, so my gran gave me a thousand quid. You think your - er they could hook me up? With a decent motor?'  
   
'No', Liv declines instantly.  
   
Alisha, Mo, Jackie, and Susa look at her with varying degrees of surprise. Tobias is a prat but he wasn't trying to be offensive, right?  
   
Liv leans back, weight resting on her elbows now, and she squints up at Tobias.  
   
'No chance you'd get a decent car for a thousand quid.'  
   
***  
   
On the morning of May, 2nd, Dom and Orlando spend an hour in Christopher's office, debating Dom's chosen subject for JC's week of project-oriented-learning. Well, fighting tooth and nail over it. Dom takes very few things seriously, but graphic novels are one of them. And it's just Christopher's luck (and by 'luck' we mean 'terrible misfortune'), that Orlando is a. Dom's best mate, b. head of the planning committee and c. an even bigger graphic novel enthusiast, especially where Frank Miller is concerned.  
   
To Christopher's credit, he holds out valiantly. He doesn't even make use of the landmine he uses as a paperweight (claiming that it isn't working any longer, something no one believes) when Dom, very seriously, suggests that the drama club could even sew costumes for all members of staff.   
   
But even Christopher (who has fought in actual wars!) has to admit defeat when Ian comes in, sits down and says that he thinks it is a splendid idea. 'As long as you focus on the X-Men, since it is, after all, set in a school and features this wonderfully ambiguous character who can control metal'.  
   
Christopher is surrounded by nincompoops.  
   
***  
   
If you happen to fuck up in Mr Bloom's house and are stupid enough to get caught, there usually is hell to pay. All you can do is pray (and not tell Mr Bloom about it or he'll double your punishment) and hope he hasn't got time for you and loans you out to Mr Bean. It's much better with Mr Bean because it's not like he is a total softie or anything, but he isn't as much of a cruel slave driver as Mr Bloom.  
   
Thing is, if he is busy, too, and there's no couching to be done or feelings to talk about, just plain old working-off-your-sins, he might pawn you off as well.  
   
This is how five of Mr Bloom's fifth formers (whose names shall be withheld because it's plainly embarrassing) spend the better part of their Wednesday afternoon in the local gardening centre. It wouldn't have been so bad, if it had just been dragging a couple of sacks of soil around which is Mr Mortensen's original reason for coming here. But naturally, he brought Mr Bana who in turn brought Mr Butler who took one look at the sign pointing towards garden ponds and fish and lost what little grasp he still had on that thing he calls sanity.  
   
About two hours (and a pit stop at the chippy in the parking lot) later, Mr Mortensen and Mr Bana, quite by accident, spot a disturbed looking Maria Dayton hiding behind a decorative shrub. She claims that Mr Butler has them all trying plastic pond foundations on for size by lying down in them, ignoring her boyfriend's claim that he is claustrophobic. She also says that next time, she demands to be punished by Mr Bloom. Because nothing can be as bad as this.  
   
***  
   
May, 4th is not a good day in Viggo's book. It's StarWars day, something Viggo wouldn't care about at all if it weren't for Orlando. Orlando hates StarWars with a passion he otherwise reserves for the catholic church because in his opinion it's 'a thinly veiled and horribly executed glorification of a mythology that rivals your backwards church's ludicrous notion of Saints in its idiocy, Viggo'.  
   
  _Your_  church, Viggo; and isn't that the problem in a nutshell. Viggo isn't even catholic (hasn't even  _watched_  StarWars), and yet Orlando holds him responsible regardless.   
   
On any other day, Viggo might find this sort of misguided form of religious persecution funny. On a Thursday, with six periods and a staff meeting ahead of him and a headache the equivalent of a thunderstorm brewing behind his brows ever since he  woke up? Not so much.  
   
So, after the first couple of lessons - his third form having done nothing to ease his headache - he sits in the staff room and wishes for ear plugs or, alternately, a blow on the head.   
   
With his tea and a biscuit he undoubtedly stole from Gerry, Sean arrives at their table a minute later. He takes one look at Viggo and then tosses a random historical anecdote about the inquisition in Orlando's general direction. In their game of matador vs. bull (and seriously, Viggo has never felt more mis-cast in his life), Sean is as versed as a seasoned rodeo clown in diverting the attention of the raging bull. He merely laughs when Orlando narrows his eyes, and as Orlando zones in on him and tells him how much of a muppet he is, Sean just hums and brushes biscuit crumbs from his shirt front.  
   
Viggo doesn't look up when a hand lands on his shoulder, its fingers' squeeze familiar to him anywhere even so.  
   
'So, I was thinking', Eric says as he sits down, his large frame blocking Orlando from view, 'we could do Argentina over the summer, yeah?'  
   
Viggo blinks and makes an attempt at focussing on Eric. Eric holds the mug advertising Viagra which somehow found its way into the staff room's kitchenette. He hands it to Viggo, his fingers briefly closing over Viggo's.  
   
It's Eric's coffee, more milk than anything and with about half a pound of sugar forming sludge at the bottom. But Viggo drinks it and listens to Eric planning their summer vacation, their adventures a shameless ripoff of both 'Butch Cassidy' and that one 'Top Gear' episode.  
   
'So, sounds good?' Eric asks eventually when the bell has rung again and everyone save for Sean, contentedly munching another biscuit, has already left the room.  
   
Viggo puts his coffee down onto his untidy pile of photo copies and leans forward in his chair, his motion automatically mirrored by Eric. His hand, still warmed from the mug, closes over the back of Eric's neck.  
   
'Sounds good.'  
   
***  
   
It just so happens that on Friday, during lunch break Bernard seeks out the common room in the human sciences building (or HuSci, as the children call it, because JC is an 1970s space station). It is not entirely by accident, Bernard is looking for a quiet spot where he can try out this new technique for power napping he read about.  
   
As he walks down the hallway, he is very optimistic about his chances; there is not a sound to be heard anywhere.  
   
He hasn't, however, accounted for the fact that they live in the 21st century. When he rounds the corner into the common area - his hand already loosening his tie - he finds that the common room is far from deserted. He counts more than ten pupils in varying ages, and Viggo and Eric. No one is talking, no one is even taking notice of him. All of them are hunched over their phones, completely enthralled by the internet or some virtual reality computer game. That of course includes Viggo who would have his phone implanted if that was an option. Eric, next to him on the couch, is the sole exception which is due to him being sound asleep. Even in his moment of shock, Bernard makes a mental note to ask him about his napping technique later.  
   
'It's like walking into a room full of zombies', he says (to himself because no one is acknowledging his presence). 'Or ghosts.'  
   
'Did you just say zombie-goats?'  
   
Bernard turns around to find Gerry behind him. He is carrying what appears to be a beer-hat and for a reason that Bernard doesn't want to know the picture of George Bernard Shaw that usually decorates the hallway of the second floor.  
   
'No?' says Bernard, even though it bears little meaning.  
   
Because naturally Gerry ignores this completely, beams impossibly wide and while he uses George Bernard Shaw's disapproving face to usher Bernard ahead of him, down the corridor, he starts expanding on the subject of zombie-goats and how they might very well rule the world in five years' time.  
   
Bernard is quite certain he won't try his power napping technique today, even if he had time left after Gerry is done with him. He would rather not have nightmares about brainmatter-eating animals.  
   
***  
   
This is a companion piece to this one :).  
Also, if you aren't already, guy, WATCH SKAM <333.  
 

   
The sun comes out from time to time on Saturday afternoon, proving that it is finally spring.  
   
Sean sits outside the Pony, very much enjoying himself with a bitter and two women at the other table, both taking turns in smiling at him occasionally. Viggo comes back from one of his strolls through the forest and joins him as Sean waves at him.  
   
Upon enquiring what he has done with his Siamese twin ('Woodland elves captured Eric, eh?'), Viggo informs Sean that the situation is much more dire than that ('Gerry. Pony Club meeting'), and Sean orders him a pint.  
   
It's about half an hour later, which Viggo spends watching Sean flirt and eating Sean's peanuts, that Karl and Boris join them.  
   
Boris sits in front of Sean and silently demands his cut of the peanuts, and Karl straddles the bench on Viggo's side, nodding at him.  
   
'Hey, you doing a project on Islam at the moment?'   
   
Sean stops eye-discussing with Boris in order to look up. Viggo shakes his head.  
   
'Nope. Why?'  
   
Karl shakes his head and glances back at the woods, an expression on his face like  _he_  just saw woodland elves there.  
   
'On my way here, I passed three groups of kids', he says and pulls a face, like it was an affront in itself to have to see pupils on the weekend. 'And two of them were discussing the Quran.'  
   
'Really?' Viggo asks. 'I don't think anyone at JC is doing the Quran right now.'  
   
Karl nods. Sean buckles under Boris's hypnotizing stare.  
   
'Got really into it as well. Reasons for praying, personal happiness and, for some reason, brains of cockroaches.'  
   
Viggo laughs in surprise.  
   
'Really? Odd.'  
   
Karl grunts.  
   
'Can say that again.'  
   
Sean holds out a handful of peanuts to Boris.  
   
'Figures.'  
   
Both Karl and Viggo look at him, brows arched. Sean gives them a smile and a half-shrug.  
   
'Skam update on NRK', he says, gets up and wipes his slobbery hand on his jeans. 'Refill, anyone?'  
   
Viggo and Karl automatically nod, but when Sean turns around, they look at one another again.  
   
'You got any idea -?' Viggo asks.  
   
'No fucking clue, mate', Karl replies. 'Probably drunk already. Any of those peanuts left?'  
   
***  
   
Seve = odt  
   
***  
   
Orlando says that Sean's desk is a catastrophe. Sean says Orlando is a liar that lies. Orlando doesn't argue with Sean, there is no point, instead he takes pictures and sends just eight of them to Sean during lessons:  
   
1 - An apple that Orlando knows has been there for three months. Sean texts back that it isn't his, but how is that relevant; it is on Sean's desk.  
   
2 - Three stacks of essays. They do have a reason for lying there, Orlando gets that, but the pupils' replies are so stupid, Orlando finds it offensive.  
   
3 - A coffee mug containing paper clips. And for some reason chopsticks.  
   
4 - A pair of women's underwear, price tag still attached. Orlando is not trying to be Christopher here and he knows that Gerry put it there for no other reason than that he is Gerry, but still.  
   
5 - A picture of George Bernard Shaw that Orlando knows belongs on the wall of the HuSci building. Well, before someone decorated his face with eyebrows and a beard made out of felt.  
   
6 - About seventy yards of computer cables, under them Sean's neat notes that look like lesson prep but are actually World of Warcraft notes.  
   
7 - Five water bottles in varying degrees of emptiness. One is used as a vase and contains a dried up rose that Sean got on Valentines day. Which was three months ago.  
   
8 - Exactly fifteen Post it notes from Orlando, telling Sean to clean up his fucking mess. For fuck's sake.  
   
***  
   
***  
   
In recent years, JC's older pupils have been increasingly stressed out about their A-levels and GCSEs. Christopher and Ian observed this with growing unease because, if left to themselves in times like these, seventeen year olds have a tendency to choose rather unfortunate methods of stress relief. And the headmasters might turn several blind eyes to certain staff members' attitude towards recreational drugs, but they cannot do the same where the student body is concerned. Same goes for recreational sex, both in pairs and all by oneself, especially if the latter happens to occur in one of the pupils' lavatories  _during_  exams.  
   
In any case, this is why in early 2017, during one of the staff meetings, Ian announced that the P.E. teachers should lend a helping hand  by offering alternative ways to lower stress levels. Karl thought this a fucking stupid idea because there is a reason why he teaches P.E. and that is so he doesn't have anything to do with GCSEs whatsoever. But Christopher made it pretty clear that Ian's words weren't just a friendly suggestion, so Karl offers extra hours of rugby practice, starting in May. The rest of the tracky-bum-clad rest of the staff follows suit - Tom founds a temporary boxing club for high-strung girls, Sarah opens the gym rooms for yoga every other night, and so on. You get the idea. All very much in the spirit of what JC's wise headmaster duo had in mind.  
   
Only Beth is the exception which shouldn't really surprise anyone. Which is how, on the morning of May, 9th, she gets called into Ian's office and asked why on earth she taught ten sixth formers how to pick locks and how to repel down from the roof of the drama building. Her response that the drama building is only two storeys high, barely enough to break a bone, does, for some reason not satisfy Ian.  
   
***  
   
Names with which JC's teachers have been addressed with or referred to by their pupils this year:  
   
Sean - Mr Bean, Mr B, Bean, Coach, Sean, Beanie (that one didn't go so well)  
   
Viggo - Mr Mortensen, Mr M, Viggo, Vig, Mr Bana  
   
Cate - Mme Blanchett, la sexy (French not being JC's pupils' strong suit), Mrs Blanchett  
   
Craig - Mr Parker, Herr Parker, Frau Parker (German apparently being slightly confusing to some as well)  
   
Dominic - Mr West, West, Are-you-sure-that's-safe, Bushy Top (that was before the incident with the Bunsen burner and West's subsequent buzz cut)  
   
Eric - Mr Bana, Bana, Banana man, Mrs Mortensen   
   
Christopher - Mr Lee, Headmaster, Sir, evil overlord of all (okay, technically it wasn't a pupil but Orlando who called him that)  
   
Gerry - Mr Butler, Gerry, Gerard (which is pronounced 'Jaret', according to Gerry, but 'Jeraaaarrrd' according to his A-level), Pete, Pineapple, Betty, Ponyboy, that whackjob, he with the sexy beard (Susa has a thing for beards, okay, don't judge her)  
   
Orlando - Mr Bloom, Sir, fucking Mr Bloom  
   
Karl - Coach  
   
***  
   
'Mr Bloom', Jeremy asks, dragging the vowel in his teacher's name out like it was spelled with six O 's instead of two, 'can I ask you something?'  
   
Orlando looks up from the paper he is reading in his house's common room / kitchen.  
   
'Sure. As long as it's not about the keys to the boatshed again.'  
   
It's not like previous conversations with Jeremy on that topic have actually sunk in. The kid works under the assumption that everyone over 15 is potentially senile and possibly forgets that they already told Jeremy that he is not, under any circumstances, allowed to take one of the boats out for a midnight journey.  
   
Jeremy in response looks equally offended and disappointed, which is quite the accomplishment, but then shakes his head.  
   
Orlando waits.   
   
Jeremy doesn't instantly come forward with his question. Orlando would assume that it was about the boatshed after all, if it weren't for the fact that Jeremy is staring at his face with a sort of dejected fascination, like he's never actually seen him before.  
   
'Jezza, what's up?' Orlando prompts and gives the paper he is holding a slight shake, indicating that he has better things to do with his Thursday evening than playing a freak show exhibit for one of his first former's amusement.  
   
'Yeah, so, I wanted to ask', Jeremy says, eyes still not quite meeting Orlando's but being somewhat stuck at his mouth/nose area now. 'Some of the other kids, you know, they have these pictures -'  
   
Orlando's lips automatically do a downwards turn, causing Jeremy to stop talking mid sentence. Orlando wipes a hand over his mouth, though he is sure that none of the scones and jam he had earlier can be still stuck there.  
   
'What pictures?'   
   
He really doesn't want to know. Last month he had three stern conversations with kids from his house about how it is not, under any circumstances, okay to send other people pictures of your penis via whatsapp, and yes, Shkelzen, not even if they asked for them, for fuck's sake. It's bad enough when his hormonally challenged fifth formers do it, but if the ten year olds start with it now, he will have to inform Ian and that -  
   
'Pictures of you', says Jeremy, and doesn't that jerk Orlando out of his contemplations.   
   
'What?'  
   
Jeremy shrugs.  
   
'They said it was you', he says, like it isn't his fault that cameras had been invented. 'But not like you are now, but you know, younger.'  
   
Orlando, whose brain just spent the last twenty seconds trying to suss out how the fuck any of his kids could've gotten hold of any photographic evidence of his and Katy's naked paddle boarding fun last year, lets out a somewhat relieved sigh. It causes Jeremy to frown.  
   
'Okay', says Orlando, 'so what about them?'  
   
'Why were you wearing a school uniform?' Jeremy asks, then corrects himself, 'I mean like why were you wearing JC's uniform?'  
   
'The answer to that is pretty obvious', Orlando replies. 'And I wasn't playing dress up for Halloween.'  
   
Jeremy nods, not even the hint of a smile on his face.  
   
'So, you were a pupil here?'   
   
Orlando nods.  
   
'In Mr Bean's house.'  
   
That earns him a grin.  
   
'Yeah? Were you ever couched?'  
   
Until today there js probably still an indentation on Sean's sofa, the shape of Orlando's bum.  
   
'No. I was a little angel.'  
   
Jeremy snorts at that.  
   
'You told us it's bad to lie, Mr Bloom.'  
   
'Well, I lied.'  
   
Jeremy stares at him again.  
   
After ten seconds or so Orlando raises his paper, indicating that he wouldn't mind getting back to it now.  
   
'They said, I look like you', Jeremy blurts out.    
   
Orlando lowers his paper again. Jeremy looks back, brows knitted together in anger but the corners of his mouth quivering in something like nervous anticipation. Orlando raises one shoulder in a shrug.  
   
'Yeah, maybe.'  
   
Jeremy's face scrunches together like he bit into a lemon.  
   
'Oh, cheers', Orlando says dryly.  
   
Jeremy scratches his head, making an even bigger mess of his dark curls. He thinks about it for a moment.  
   
'Mr Bloom?', he then asks, face still serious. 'Mr Bean, did he let you have the keys for the boat shed?'  
   
Without answering, Orlando raises his paper again. Yesterday's news create a thin wall against the perseverance of a poltergeist from the past.  
   
***

It's not like the village is entirely deserted when Karl and Boris go for their Sunday morning run. They usually cross paths with the same bunch of early birds - like that redhead with the bunch of corgis that Boris is afraid of, the farmer with the rattling tractor or the old man who crosses the street equally slow and determined on the way to fuck knows where.  
   
It's not even unusual for Karl and Boris to be reminded of the village's close proximity to JC. Viggo managed to get his lazy arse out of bed to join them only about three times before packing it in, but he still sometimes sleepwalks to the bakery and comes up with idiotic excuses when he sees Karl. Unlike Harry who has a tendency to sneak out the B&B - though it's not so much sneaking out, really but the exact opposite of the walk of shame - and waves at Karl with an easy satisfaction that Karl would attribute to a good run if he didn't know better.  
   
Less frequently he bumps into Bernard, or rather Boris does and greets him with so much enthusiasm that dog, man, and man's bicycle (which looks like it belongs to the wife really) end up in a pile on the cobble stone. And recently there is a good chance that Beth catches up with him on the way or is already waiting for him at the beginning of the forest.

***

Karl returns from a field trip around five. The destination was 'Engergize' whose official title is 'York's multi functional leisure centre', which is a joke in itself when you go there with a busload of first formers.

Karl deposits his charges – still somewhat damp but still alive – on JC's front steps and on his way across school grounds, he runs into Harry and Sean who complain to him about how none of their kids can spell properly and into Eric and Viggo who bitch about the second copying machine in the break room being out of toner.

Karl spent his day saving George Winter from drowning, tending to a gaping head wound because Michael Macht is too stupid to jump from a diving board, fishing George out of the deep end again, looking for Jonah Thomas who got lost in the changing rooms, saving George from drowning again, yelling at Josie Akhabach for trying to poke holes into George's newly acquired swimmies with a pair of scissors she hid fuck knows where and diving for the top of Jessica McShannon's bikini which she lost when she cannonballed into the kiddie pool.

And is he complaining about that?

'My mates are a bunch of fucking pussies', he remarks to Beth and Boris who wait for him outside of JC's gates.

'Woof, woof,' Beth says somewhat threateningly and adds a growl. Boris stares up at her adoringly.

'You are fucking odd', Karl says, his voice pretty much the equivalent to Boris's gaze.

Beth growls again.

 

***

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a pony club in possession of a lot of bored pony kid mothers, must be in want of a Gerard Butler.

It is a truth that Jane Thelwell, president of the local pony club, is absolutely willing to acknowledge. A former pupil of Jackson College herself, she has to admit that when Gerry first applied for membership, she was slightly surprised and somewhat apprehensive. Aside from Mr M, none of the teaching staff ever set foot onto the pony club's yard. And ever since that time when she found Mr M sleeping in Brego's box, she was rather happy that at least the rest of her former teachers didn't consider themselves horse whisperers.

Not that Gerry aspires to become Monty Roberts. He is, and Jane says this with love, not a natural when it comes to anything equine. But he makes up for it with enthusiasm – like that one time with the farrier when Gerry didn't just lift Naponyon's hoof but the entire pony and actually held him up until the farrier was done. Furthermore, and Jane cannot stress this enough, there has been an influx of business ever since Gerry's and Eric's decision to join the club. Personally, Jane doesn't see the appeal because her type is more blond, wiry and not completely inept, but the majority of mothers beg to differ. They suddenly find the time to accompany their kids to the stable yard on Saturday afternoons. They drink coffee and watch with great interest how Gerry, on his knees next to Al Capony has one of the eight year olds teach him how to braid a Shetland pony's unruly mop of hair.

A lady's imagination is very rapid; it jumps from admiration to love, from love to 'now look at that fine piece of ass' in a moment.

***

10% or Eric's brain wake when the bed dips on one side. 90% of his brain are still busy with him being a lump of sleep, and they tell the 10% to shove off. The 10% utter their annoyance at being shunned like that with something like a groan that in no language translates to 'good morning' and then buckle under the pressure and rejoin the majority.

With 15% of his brain a low chuckle from next to him registers enough for said 15% to take a casual interest. That low chuckle, they say, belongs to Viggo, and quiet amusement means he is in a good mood. 15% of his brain like the equation of Viggo, good mood, and bedroom. 85% of his brain want to drool on his pillow though, so he does that.

'Hey, did you know that Easter is about Jesus turning into a zombie and creating the first hype of Walking Dead?' Viggo says, some time later, and, 'Hey, don't move,' when Eric attempts to flop his head around from one side to the other, so he has at least theoretically the option of being able to look at Viggo if he can muster enough brainpower to open his eyes.

'You're messing up my essays,' Viggo says, and Eric feels movement atop his blanket, Viggo's hands collecting papers he piled on top of Eric.

'You're back', Eric says. He is pretty proud of himself that this came out as a full sentence, but Viggo doesn't appreciate the syntactical prowess of Eric's brain; on the contrary, he laughs again.

'Yeah, I am. I decided my Sunday morning was better spent grading essays than running in the woods.'

Eric hums in understanding, then temporarily a large quantity of his brain decides that this is enough conversation this early in the morning and shuts down again. Possibly Viggo continues to comment on his pupils' silly answers to R.E. test questions, because somehow Eric's dream not only features a brain eating sluggish Jesus shuffling down the hallways of JC, but also cherubs throwing stardust on him. When Eric focuses on the little chubby angels, they bear the face of Orlando. It's startling enough for him to wake up again with a snort.

'Why didn't you go back to yours for that?' he asks.

Viggo hums questioningly. Possibly because he experienced time differently, possibly because it's been an hour or so between his last sentence and Eric's reply.

'Grading papers', Eric says, his tongue still heavy in his mouth. He shifts onto his side, facing Viggo, because maybe talking is easier like that. 'Weren't your papers back at yours?'

Viggo chuckles.

'We are at mine, mate.'

Eric hums and 23% of his brain suggest that he should try and defend himself, say something about that he knew that that he just meant – 63% of his brain tell the 23% to shut the fuck up. 14% don't care about intellectual discourse and are busy navigating Eric's left hand that in turn is trying to locate Viggo on the bed without the help of Eric's eyes. It doesn't instantly find Viggo, but lands on a rustling paper bag. Now 45% of his brain are interested and squeeze the bag and push him to enquire.

'Did you go to the bakery?'

Viggo hums and pulls the bag from Eric's grasp.

'Yeah. I was already out of breath when Karl and I just reached the end of the village and when Beth turned up and said that this wasn't gonna – and I quote – 'a stroll for the elderly and handicapped', I decided to hide in the bakery instead of running along.'

'Hm.'

Viggo waits for a more elaborate answer to his recollection of his morning, but Eric isn't good at multitasking before breakfast and has another thing on his mind.

'I'm not your mother.'

Viggo barks out a laugh that, instinctively, 36% of Eric's startled brain reply to by lightly boxing Viggo in the side.

'Oh, I know that. Would be rather weird if you were, Eric.'

Eric grumbles and extracts his hand which Viggo captured.

'Breakfast in bed. Mothers' day', he says. Even half awake (okay, 45%, but close enough), the calendar in his mind is already switched on.

'Yeah, it's _my_ breakfast, though', Viggo argues and Eric hears him bite down on something crunchy, before he continues with a full mouth. 'So, technically, that'd mean that I'd be my own mother. Hm, sounds like one of my essay questions on the holy trinity, actually.'

'Hm.'

'Okay, maybe not completely.'

'Hm.'

'It's more of the holy spirit kind of fathering itself, if you see Jesus not just as the son of God but as God himself.'

'You'll get crumbs on the bed.'

Okay, so even with just 43% of his brainpower focusing on the discussion (the one about breakfast. 13% devotedly try and follow Viggo's religious epiphany, another 13 bemoan the fact that they aren't sleeping anymore, 30% want Viggo to abandon breakfast rolls _and_ Jesus and concentrate on sleeping _with_ Eric, and 1% is still deeply disturbed by the image of cherub!Orlando), Eric knows that his reasoning is invalid. It's Sunday morning, the sheet are a week old and by now sport sweat, stains of soil, pony hairs, possibly semen, and an ink stain from when Eric tried to grade papers here on Wednesday and his pen broke.

Viggo, too, seems to think his logic faulty and demonstrates his lack of caring instantly. Eric feels him shift and then a light trickle of tiny breadcrumbs rains down onto his face.

'Fuck off', he grumbles, squints his eyes a little tighter but otherwise doesn't bother moving. Viggo cackles with delight, stops his breakfast sandman routine in favour of another crunch-chewing, and according to the rustling of paper, he goes back to grading.

13% of Eric's brain still insist that he should sleep some more. However, the vast majority is bothered by the crumbs sticking to his face. They tickle, and considering they are in Viggo's flat, there is also the possibility of ants. Eric doesn't want to fall asleep and be carried away by ants when he isn't noticing.

He doesn't say as much but just boxes Viggo in the side once again and then gestures at what he supposes must be the general direction of his face, adding a growling sound for good measure. Viggo laughs again, but his weight shifts on the mattress. 

Eric unscrunches his brows when Viggo's lips touch them, light and gentle, and when he lifts his lips from Eric's skin, the crumb on his forehead is gone as well. Eric hums his appreciation. Viggo takes this as the encouragement it is meant to be, kisses away a crumb on Eric's brow, on his temple (there apparently must be several crumbs, considering Viggo's repeated attempts at removing them), his cheekbone, the corner of his eye at the bridge of his nose. Eric holds still, exhales in sync with Viggo's breath on his just slightly damp skin, hums encouragement, when Viggo's hand comes to cradle the back of his head to hold him still (like Eric would move).

But of course it's Viggo, and 67% of Eric's brain are actually a bit surprised that it takes him so long to get bored with the meticulousness of this. 23% of his brain still utter a sleepy yelp of surprise when Viggo abandons his previous technique and opts for cleaning away the rest of the miniature crumbs on Eric's cheek and jaw and chin by sticking out the full length of his tongue and using it as a washcloth. Eric tries to pull away, and now the hand in his hair makes sense, because he can't and Viggo cackles with delight, just before another wet sweep of his tongue goes down Eric's chin and his exposed throat.

'Happy mothers' day, mate.'

***

So far, Idris has not noticed his new neighbour much. Dominic West is quiet (except for this one time at night when Idris could have sworn something exploded next door, but that was probably just a car misfiring outside), there are no strange smells coming from his flat, he nods politely when they run into each other in the morning, and when it's sunny outside and Idris tries his best to get the primroses in the pots on his balcony to grow, Dominic West offers him meat from the grill that seems to be constantly on. Idris had worse neighbours and thinks that, if he should run into West in the pub, he might have a pint with him.

However, when he comes home from work on Monday, the door to Dominic West's flat is plastered with A4 sized photocopies. Idris stops, looks at them and frowns. There is a picture of West, obviously taken with a phone camera without his consent. Above it, big bold letters read 'Wanted – undead or alive', and below the picture, in smaller letters 'If you have seen this man, please put a sack over his head and return him immediately to JC. Reward: 50p”.

Idris walks on to his own door and wonders who let an obviously disturbed ten year old with abandonment issues into the building.

***

These are eight of the things Jackson College's pupils bet on in May 2017 so far: They bet on...

… whether or not Jason Phebs could swim across the pond with a basketball tied to his head (he couldn't. Mr Urban had to fish him out).

… how many first formers Mr Urban's dog can catch before they reach the safety of JC's entrance hall (it turned out, only one – he pushed Mike Cassidy in a puddle and then sat on him.)

… who could shove the biggest edible object up his nose (Tony LaGuera; one mid sized carrot)

… who would be caught hooking up in the bike shed next (even money if you wanted to bet on Mikael and Jay)

… how often Mr Lee would use the word 'decent' in his upcoming-GCSEs-motivational-speech (15 times)

… whether or not you could run across the front lawn naked without getting caught (that wasn't so much as a bet but a dare, brought on by the consumption of Robert Ryan's excellent weed)

… how many second formers could fit into the boot of Mr Bana's Falcon (Three. Mr Bana was NOT pleased when he discovered them stuck in there after their mates abandoned them upon his arrival)

… who would get Mr Hill to convince Mr Mortensen to name his trees after characters from 'The Lord of the Rings' (No one is actually sure who did it, but a teeny tiny twig tree is now called 'Treebeard'.)

These are eight of the things Jackson College's staff bet on in May 2017 so far: They bet on...

… how many first formers Boris can catch before they reach the safety of JC's entrance hall. Everyone is sure that Karl fixed that bet, but they won't say anything in fear of Boris sitting on them.

… which pupil could shove the biggest edible object up his nose (Gerry lost, which is terribly unfortunate because he was the one to suggest the bet. There is no justice in the world.)

… who would be caught hooking up in the bike shed next (1:5 if you wanted to bet on Eric and Viggo)

… how often Orlando would use the word 'fucking muppet' in his recreation of his fight about the upcoming project-based-learning-week with Christopher (21)

… whether Dom's weed was superior to the one Harry confiscated from a naked Joshua Roland. Dom to this day feels insulted by this. 

… whether Sarah Michelle or Beth would fix the leaking faucets in the gymnasium's locker room before the janitor got around to do it. (They did. Beth did it whilst the rugby team was in there showering. If they were proper blokes, they wouldn't shriek like banshees only because she temporarily turned the hot water off.)

… when West would get evicted for accidentally blowing something up in his new flat. (He hasn't, surprisingly.)

… who could get the longest time of conversation in when calling Sean while 'Emmerdale' was on. (The result is still pending. No one dared to try yet.)

***

The reason why Orlando growls his way through 'Guardians of the Galaxy 2' on this Wednesday afternoon is not that he is here with twenty second formers. It's not the noise they make, not even the sucking sounds that come from two rows back (even though Orlando has no idea who would suck face during a fight scene, seriously). It's not Jenny Farthing grabbing his hand in excitement about twenty times and nearly crushing the bones in it (he should've put her to his other side, though. His plaster cast would've come in handy then). And it isn't even Even Brodricson spilling Coke all over himself ten minutes in. No, the reason why Orlando growls his way through 'Guardians of the Galaxy 2' is that Sean keeps fucking eating his popcorn. Seriously, next time he will either sit at the other end of the cinema or take a knife with him and stab Sean. Orlando has comforted Sean during rough break ups and he was even there for him during that disaster of a motorbiking trip through Italy when Sean had the runs for two weeks straight. But there are fucking limits. Seriously.

***

The only reason why Sean utters a huff of surprise when he opens his door on Thursday afternoon is that it has taken so long. In front of him, Jane Wilkins, Robert Ryan, and Maria Dayton stand like they were quick-frozen baby deer, which is quite the feature, considering that Robert is 6'3'' and Jane wears enough make up to last an entire modeling agency.

'What's up?' Sean asks, even though he knows perfectly well what they want.

All three briefly change their expression from deer to one that kind of resembles the one of the genetically engineered raccoon with the attitude problem from the movie Orlando dragged him to yesterday.

'Mr B, are you stupid?' Maria asks.

'Excuse me?' Sean replies, more amused than actually offended. It's always the same at this point, really. Nothing can faze him anymore, and that includes stress induced spontaneous nudity.

Still, Jane elbows Maria in the side, and Robert clears his throat.

'Yeah, uh, what Maria is trying to say, Mr B, is uh', he scratches his head like it only occurs to him now that he actually finds his presence here embarrassing. 'Never mind, actually.'

Much to the surprise of the two girls he gives Sean a completely unwarranted salute of all things before turning around in order to leave.

'Rob!' Maria protests.

'Uh', Jane says and looks back and forth between her friends and Sean. 'Uh.'

Sean pushes the door to his flat open a little further, and the slight creak of the hinge makes Robert turn his head around.

'Why don't the three of you come in, and I'll put the kettle on, huh?' he says.

They exchange looks but he doesn't wait for them to decide. He turns back into his flat and walks into the kitchen. If they bolt, he trusts them to shut the door before they do. But he hears their footsteps on his wooden floor even before he pulled the box with tea bags from its drawer.

He knows Orlando has taken up permanent residence in the library, and Viggo even skips his habitual Thursday afternoon bath, Eric's maths club suddenly has a membership of a lot more than its usual five people, and since the weather is good, he saw Bernard doing revisions on the front lawn.

GCSEs started on Monday, and between cramming and writing cheat sheets, every pupil has an average of 2.3 breakdowns during that time. 

'If you want milk, you sugar, you gotta fetch it from the living room', Sean calls over his shoulder, over the sound of boiling water.

Robert slumps down at the kitchen table and stares at the box of tea bags as if he wished all that was expected from him this month was just choosing between Earl Grey and that idiotic fancy cinnamon flavoured green tee Viggo gave Sean for Christmas. Jane returns from the living room with a handful of sugar cubes, and Maria stands guard over the kettle as Sean sits down at the kitchen table himself.

'So, what's up?' he asks again, waiting for them to unload.

***

West would generally consider himself to be a cautious person. All reports to the contrary given by surly fifth years with singed eyebrows are outrageous; it's certainly not West's fault that they can't handle a minimal amount of explosives. And he still maintains that it wasn't due to the experiments that he conducted in his last flat's kitchen that the thing sort of went up in flames; he is pretty sure it must have been faulty wiring. In any case, West is a cautious person, so in hindsight it is very out of character for him to make such a gross error of judgment. But the fact is that he owed his neighbour a pint for showing him how to turn off the fire alarm without having to call the landlord, and West makes good on his promises. 

So, come Friday, he invited Idris to the 'Pony'. He didn't actually consider that his colleagues might be there. With Orlando it's no problem, he is a natural repellent all on his own; no danger there. Sean is too busy yelling at the football match on the tiny television in the corner, and Harry and Karl attempt their best at alienating the elderly population of the village even further by annihilating them at darts. 

But then Gerry comes in. For a second, West has the hopes that Idis might drink quick enough for the inevitable to be avoided because Gerry makes a bee line for Viggo and Eric and talks animatedly at Eric without preamble. But as it turns out, Idris is a slow drinker and also a good enough conversationalist for West to temporarily forget about Gerry. And then it's too late. Gerry comes over, plants himself onto the barstool on Idris's other side and eyes him like he was a fourteen year old girl who just got dumped by her first girl friend. Idris thankfully ignores him and continues to tell his story about his last trip to London together with a mate named Tom who – 

'You know Tom?' asks Gerry, unabashedly butting in. 'Tom Hardy?'

West looks at Gerry in confusion because of all the Toms in the world, why would Idris be talking about JC's P.E. teacher Tom who – 

'Yeah, course I do', Idris says, now smiling at Gerry. 'Thick as thieves, the two of us.'

Gerry full on beams at Idris. And the next thing West knows is Gerry bought Idris another pint and they share hilarious Tom Hardy stories, getting on like a house on fire. West rolls his eyes at that and thinks that someone should definitely call the fire brigade to hose them down before it is too late.

***

Sean comes back from shopping and thinks that it possibly wasn't a good idea to allow the first formers to open the gummy frogs in the bus. Like a biblical swarm of locusts on a sugar rush, the kids swarm out the second they stop, and he is just thankful that the weather is good and they can work out some of the borrowed energy outside. He knows from experience that they'll probably crash in two hours or so.

Still, he flees the scene before Christopher spots him and puts together the pieces. He rounds the Science building to get to his favourite bench for a quiet smoke, but finds it already occupied. He stops and as he pulls his Silk Cuts from the pocket of his coat, he chuckles quietly to himself. Seems like Orlando ate gummy frogs for breakfast and has crashed already – he is there on the bench and very much fast asleep.

Sean figures that this spot is a good as any for an afternoon nap and lights his cigarette. He sits down next to Orlando who, in his sleep, pulls a face when the smoke reaches him. Sean thinks he will have to deal with it; someone needs to make sure that the more rowdy fourth formers don't catch him like this, or a bird shits on his head.

***

It's not like the village is entirely deserted when Karl and Boris go for their Sunday morning run. They usually cross paths with the same bunch of early birds - like that redhead with the bunch of corgis that Boris is afraid of, the farmer with the rattling tractor or the old man who crosses the street equally slow and determined on the way to fuck knows where.

It's not even unusual for Karl and Boris to be reminded of the village's close proximity to JC. Viggo managed to get his lazy arse out of bed to join them only about three times before packing it in, but he still sometimes sleepwalks to the bakery and comes up with idiotic excuses when he sees Karl. Unlike Harry who has a tendency to sneak out the B&B - though it's not so much sneaking out, really but the exact opposite of the walk of shame - and waves at Karl with an easy satisfaction that Karl would attribute to a good run if he didn't know better.

Less frequently he bumps into Bernard, or rather Boris does and greets him with so much enthusiasm that dog, man, and man's bicycle (which looks like it belongs to the wife really) end up in a pile on the cobble stone. And recently there is a good chance that Beth catches up with him on the way or is already waiting for him at the beginning of the forest.

On this particular Sunday, the village is surprisingly quiet, though. Boris runs circles around Karl like a swarm of bees was chasing him, his tongue lolling and his park possibly loud enough to wake a few people. But the first sign of other humans still sharing this earth with Karl and his puppy only presents itself when they have already reached the woods. There, Boris suddenly abandons the well-trodden path and leaps into the undergrowth like he was a bloodhound getting a noseful of fox. Instead of yelling after him, Karl just follows and catches up about fifty yards later. Boris halted in front of an amateurishly put up crooked tent and comes back to Karl with all the pride of an explorer. Boris's excitement makes it clear what the Rottweiler plan of action would be here - take over the camp site by sending the tent's occupants running and eating their breakfast.

Karl, however, takes one look at the campsite and instantly sees the pair of abandoned XXL jumpers that lie on a pile of leaves outside and prominently sport JC's school crest. For five seconds or so, he listens to the sounds coming from inside that rather remind him of two boars in heat, then he turns around.

Boris may think he is a big dog, but there is no way Karl is going to let some random sex-crazed boarders ruin his puppy's innocence. 

***

Every pupil at JC – even the newly hatched first formers after the first week – knows that you learn different skills depending on which house you live in. Some maybe are more suitable for preparing you for life outside boarding school. Not that any of the pupils ever dare to tell their house teachers this. Here are some of the skills you learn, depending on which house you are in:

* How to wash, iron and fold your own laundry. Because your house teacher is not your fucking mother and you can do it on your own, you muppet.  
* How to use an ordinary screwdriver to open cans of, say, Fray Bentos.  
* How to climb down the side of the house because it's deemed an appropriate way to vacate the house during the weekly fire drill.  
* How to use a condom WITHOUT fruit involved.  
* How to cook proper food and not that crap Mr Bean feeds you.  
* How to mend your own clothes. Because your house teacher still is not your mother and won't explain to your parents why you need yet another school tie just because you used yours to tie your mate to a tree.  
* How to paint your own rooms. Any colour you want as long as you leave them white before the summer hols.  
* How to fend off the spooky ghosts that possibly live in the attic.  
* How to explain to your parents that you don't want to become a doctor but a circus clown (okay, not actually a circus clown, but Viggo used that line once in the late 90s and it brought a smile on an otherwise rather sad teenager's face, so he is still sticking by it).  
* How to build a giant miniature car racing track in the common room.  
* How to knit.  
* How to use a pregnancy test (this is NOT a regularly scheduled thing and Sean very much doesn't want it to be one)

***

Orlando squints at Sean. Well, he isn't so much squinting as glowering, but Sean has seen Orlando do that since he was ten, so he is immune against it 9 out of 10 times.

'I reckon it is a great idea', Sean says, concluding his reasoning. It is, of course, like pouring gas onto a fire; something which no one but West actually would consider a great idea.

Orlando's eyes are now pretty much slits. Sean takes a sip from his pint and leans back on his bench. He licks foam from his lips, surveys the 'Pony' and only after twenty seconds or so, he looks back at Orlando.

Orlando, however, is very patient in his simmering disapproval.

'You are an idiot', he informs Sean, once Sean looks at him.

Sean smacks his lips, puts his arms on the backrest of the bench and slowly shakes his head after considering this.

'No, I don't think I am', he says and winks at Orlando.

Orlando shakes his head, then considers this not enough and throws a peanut at Sean.

'No one is gonna choose that', he says.

'Oh, they will', Sean says with all the confidence in the world.

Orlando stuffs a handful of peanuts into his mouth, only to chew them like he is punishing them for Sean's ridiculousness. Only when he has swallowed them, he says,

'No, they won't. I've seen you, and you're horrible.'

Sean laughs.

'Aye, maybe. But they don't know that beforehand, do they?'

'They will because I'll tell them.'

Sean laughs and looks at Orlando with that kinda look he uses on pupils' moms who are cross with him and end up dating him. Of course it makes Orlando throw another peanut at him.

'No, you won't', Sean says. 'It'd undermine my authority, and you're too much of a pro for that.'

Orlando growls at him and lifts his pint to wash away the bitterness of this truth with lager.

'Besides, I'm not that bad', Sean says. 'I've improved since you last saw me.'

Orlando snorts at that.

'That's like a crocodile telling me it has gotten better at knitting', he says. 'Or Gerry claiming he has gotten a hang at this whole adult thing.'

Sean gapes, feigning offense, not so much at the comparison with the crocodile as at the one with Gerry.

'That's a bit harsh, mate.'

Orlando pulls a face and nods.

'Yeah, suppose so. Sorry.' He eats another handful of peanuts, thoughtful. 'I saw him with two two first formers slung over his shoulders like potato sacks this morning.'

'And you didn't say anything?'

Orlando shrugs.

'They weren't from my house. Not my responsibility.'

Sean barks out a laugh.

'It has gotten worse since West moved out, hasn't it?'

Orlando again pulls a face, once more having to agree causing him something like physical discomfort.

'Who'd have thought. Hey, maybe I could ask West to light you on fire, so you can't go through with your idiot project?'

'Oh, I'll be on fire all right', Sean says and winks at Orlando.

Orlando responds with a retching noise. 

'How you ever get laid is honestly beyond me. But fine, do whatever you want. I'll forbid the kids from my house to pick you. There's no way I'm gonna pick up the pieces after they've seen you foxtrot.'

'Not sure you can forbid it.'

'There wouldn't be any project oriented learning at all if it weren't for me. And they are my kids. So of course I can.'

'Course you're the king of the world?'

Orlando scoffs.

'Like I'd settle for shit like that. I'd make myself God, so that all the muppets believing in divinity would have to worship me.'

Sean chuckles, then he looks up at Aaron, the 'Pony''s taciturn waiter, who has been standing next to their table for the last twenty seconds, ready to take their order.

'Course you would.'

Orlando transfers his look of perpetual scorn onto Aaron.

'I wouldn't be a benevolent God.'

Aaron nods.

'Do you want to hear today's specials?'

***

(The next snippet was written by Noalinnea)

When Eric comes back from the laundry room, laden with two weeks’ worth of fresh clothes and quite proud of himself, Viggo is sprawled out on his couch with a book. Which he seems to be holding at a weird angle, and come to think of it, in his left hand. Maybe that can be explained by the not-exactly-spotlessly-clean bandage that is wrapped around Viggo’s right thumb, Eric concludes after giving him a quick once-over. He sighs and puts down the laundry basket.  
“What did you do now?” he asks, not quite sure if he really wants to know.

Viggo decides to pretend that he is too absorbed in his book to hear him.

“Viggo!” Eric says, trying to sound strict.

Viggo frowns at him. “Don’t Viggo me”, he grumbles.

“Yeah, well, then tell me you don’t deserve it”, Eric says and makes his way over to the couch.

“I don’t deserve it”, Viggo says unconvincingly.

Eric flops down onto the couch next to him. “What did you do?”

Viggo’s frown deepens and he tries to hide behind his book. He mumbles something that Eric doesn’t really catch but that suspiciously sounds like “I stapled myself to the table”.

Eric just looks at him disbelievingly for a second before he reaches out for Viggo’s hand and starts tugging at the bandage.

“Careful”, Viggo says, trying not to wince when Eric unwraps his thumb. There are two distinct little holes there, one in his nail, the other one in his nail bed.

 “How did that happen?” Eric asks, staring at the two little angry red halos that surround the tiny holes while he wonders- again- if he really wants to know.

“Art project”, Viggo says as if that’s enough of an explanation and experimentally wriggles his thumb.

Eric suppresses a sigh and the desire to yell at him for a little bit. “Come on”, he then says simply, getting up.

Viggo just raises his eyebrows.

“We’re going to see Mrs. Dench”, Eric explains, reaching for Viggo’s arm to pull him up from the couch.

Viggo pales visibly. “But I can just drop by Evi’s office on my way to class tomorrow”, he says, trying to free himself from Eric’s grip.

Eric just shakes his head. “It doesn’t look good. Did you even try to clean it?”

Viggo huffs indignantly. “I doused it in Scotch several times yesterday evening.”

Eric briefly closes his eyes so he doesn’t have to start yelling after all, because of yesterday and Scotch and STAPLING, for fuck’s sake!

“Get moving”, he says instead, tightening his grip around Viggo’s upper arm so that he can’t make a run for it.

“But-“ Viggo starts, but Eric just shakes his head. 

“I don’t want to hear it.”

“But it’s my thumb!” Viggo protests but let’s Eric drag him down the stairs.

“Well, you could have seen Evi today”, Eric remarks, and opens the door to the court yard, pushing Viggo outside.

Viggo appears to be contemplating that because he remains silent until they reach the other dormitory. When Eric opens the door he stops, though, to say: “It’s not too late to turn back.” 

He manages to look so pitiable that Eric almost has to suppress a smile. Almost.

“Yes, it is”, he says, and knocks. For a moment they both seem to be holding their breath. It’s silent in the flat at first, but when Eric knocks again there are footsteps behind the door and Eric renews his grip around Viggo’s arm, just in case. He keeps a firm grip when the door is opened and Mrs. Dench appears in all her stern glory and a flowery dressing gown.

“We are terribly sorry to disturb you at this hour, Mrs. Dench”, Eric starts, but she just cuts him off with a little sigh of exasperation and sternly looks at Viggo: “What have you done this time?”

Viggo actually blushes like a schoolboy- which he is, sort of, when compared to Mrs. Dench- Eric is so going to make fun of him for that later on.

“There- er- was- um”, he stammers, and Mrs. Dench’s look just gets sterner.

“Speak up, Mr. Mortensen!” she demands, and Eric has to suppress a laugh when Viggo cringes.

He sees him swallow, but then his voice actually is a little steadier when he answers: “There was a stapling accident.”

Mrs. Dench looks at him in silence for a moment during which Viggo bravely keeps looking at her.

“I see”, she then says and beckons Viggo to come in with an impatient nod. When Eric wants to follow him inside, a hand on his arm stops him. “You are going to stay here, Mr. Bana. Otherwise you are just going to hover over him and we won’t get anything done.”

Eric is about to protest, but she silences him effectively: “He’s going to be just fine, dear, you just wait and see.” She briefly smiles at him before she closes the door behind herself and Eric is left to entertain himself with youtube videos on his phone.

When she reemerges with Viggo five minutes later he looks a little shaken, if relieved, and there is a neat white bandage covering the better part of his hand which is resting in a little sling.

“Now, I want you to make sure that he bathes the wound in disinfectant three times a day”, she says, turning to Eric. “And rests his hand during the remainder of the day”, she adds, directing a stern look at Viggo over the rim of her glasses.

Viggo nods. “Yes, Ma’am.”

Eric could swear there is a little smile flitting over her face when she nods. “Alright”, she sighs. “We’re done here, then. Try not to repeat that, dear, yes?” she adds, turned towards Viggo and reaches out to pat his cheek. Eric is so going to make fun about him for this, too. He knew Mrs. Dench had a soft spot for Viggo, he knew it!

Viggo nods obediently, a sight for sore eyes. “I’ll do my best.”

“Well, off to bed with you, then”, Mrs. Dench says, and nods at them again before she closes the door.

For a moment they keep standing there, both of them staring at the door, before laughter bubbles up in Eric which he hurries to stifle, and Viggo mutters that he is going to kill him once they are back at Eric’s place.

They walk back over the lawn in silence. When they reach Viggo’s house, Eric stops and reaches out for him, lightly wrapping his fingers around his wrist.

“I’m going to kill you if you die in a freak accident, you know that, right?” he says, searching Viggo’s eyes.

Viggo looks at him for a series of heart beats, a small, lopsided smile tugging up the right corner of his mouth. “Yeah, I know”, he says, serious for a moment, before his lips stretch into a huge grin and he adds: “Ma’am.”  
   
***

Curiously enough, the night from Friday to Saturday offers a decided lack of sleep for all of JC's heads of house. Even more curiously, it's for different reasons every time:

One spends the first half of the evening on a date with someone who, for once, isn't a pupil's mother. After dessert, she asks whether he'd like to come up and have a cup of coffee. There is very little sleep after that, and it's not because of caffeine.

One catches three of her charges with weed that they don't want to part from because they claim they grew it themselves. So she makes them pull an all nighter (well until two a.m.) to write an essay on how marijuana will not grow in the Yorkshire climate.

One spends the two hours between two and four trying to explain to a first former that JC is not haunted by ghosts of past teachers from the middle ages, first and foremost because the school hadn't been founded then.

One spends half of it puking their guts out over the toilet, a fate that half of their house shares thanks to iffy sea food they all had for tea.

One writes a very essay about Wittgenstein that isn't even half bad, if you take into account that he had his plaster cast removed just this afternoon, had a completely inept doctor for this who nearly broke his wrist again and thus where just a little high on meds when he decides to rant about Wittgenstein's thoughts on language. 

One spends the night alternating betwen pacing the common room like a deeply disturbed tiger in its cage and practising yoga-postures in the manner of an eighty-year-old hippopotamus. She vows to go and finally see a doctor about those crippling back pains as soon as the sun rises. Then she realises a long weekend is ahead and weeps.

One spends the first half of the evening on a date with someone who isn't a pupil's mother. Or female. After dessert, he asks whether he'd like to come up and have a cup of coffee. There is very little sleep after that, and it's not because of caffeine. It's because of cricket. 

***

(Written by Noalinnea

Eric wriggles his toes and peers down at his feet.  
"Why are my shoes damp?"

"Because you peed on them," Viggo says around his toothbrush and with a soft grunt of exertion bends down to tie his own laces.

Eric huffs, still looking down at his feet. "I didn't!"

Viggo disappears into the bathroom to rinse his mouth. "Course you did”, he calls over the sound of the running faucet. “You were complaining about it all the way home." He turns off the water and remerges from the bathroom, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Have you seen my sweater?"

"In the kitchen", Eric says distractedly. After a moment’s contemplation he adds. “I think I would remember something like that."

Viggo’s laughter is muffled by his sweater when he pulls it over his head. 

"I wouldn't count on it”, he says through the thin layer of wool. When he surfaces again he runs a hand through his unruly hair, no doubt in an attempt to create a proper hairstyle, at which he fails spectacularly, as usually, and grins at Eric. “You actually were quite drunk."

Eric huffs again and reaches out to at least smooth down part of the birds nest on Viggo’s head. "As were you."

Viggo chuckles. "Not drunk enough to pee on my shoes."

"Which I didn't do", Eric says firmly and reaches around Viggo to open the door.

Viggo grins at him over his shoulder when he steps past him into the hallway. "Then why are they damp?"

Eric uses the time he needs to close the door to think. “I must have stepped into a puddle."

“Into a clear puddle?” Viggo’s grin has now reached alarming proportions and almost stretches from his left ear to the right.

For a moment they walk next to each other in silence. But they haven’t even reached the stairs yet when Eric has to ask: "It's not really pee, though, is it?"

Viggo doesn’t even slow down, too eager to get to his breakfast. "Of course it is."

Eric stops dead in his tracks. “Viggo!?”

“What?” Viggo spins around, somewhat alarmed, and almost collides with a first former who looks frightened but possesses enough self-preserving instinct to leap out of the way. Neat, Eric manages to think, before his brain focuses on the important stuff again.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Viggo looks puzzled. “Well, I sort of did”, he then says and scratches the back of his head. After a moment’s thought he adds: “Also, what would you have done differently?”

Eric sighs in exasperation. “Gee, I don’t know, Vig, maybe not worn them?”

Viggo cocks his head to the side and looks at him funny. Without another word he then bends down and pulls off his shoes.

"What are you doing?" Eric asks.

"Take off your shoes."

"What?"

"Take- off- your- shoes", Viggo says in the tone of voice he uses with particularly ungifted students and briefly, Eric wonders if he should be offended, but instead opts for the more obvious choice and asks: “Why?”

Viggo sighs. "Because we'll just do what we did last evening and then you can stop whining about pee and we can have breakfast. Give me your shoes. Before all the waffles are gone."

Eric has to admit that that is a fair point, waffles, and just does what he is told. Viggo unceremoniously pushes his shoes over to him and quickly slips into Eric’s well-worn sneakers, before he turns back around and makes his way down the stairs.

Eric hurries after him, and can’t help looking from his sneakers to Viggo’s face while they are walking to the breakfast room.

Viggo catches his eyes. "What?" he asks, without slowing down, now sounding more amused than exasperated.

"But it's pee", Eric says.

Viggo just chuckles and shakes his head.

"But it is!" Eric exclaims.

It’s Viggo's turn to abruptly stop. He reaches for Eric’s shoulders and pulls him close, but not before briefly checking the hallway for involuntary spectators. “Eric”, he then says in a low voice, meant for his ears alone. "It comes from the very organ which I am quite happy to take into my mouth, as you might have noticed, so would you just shut up about this? It's really not that big a deal."

Eric just stares at him in something that maybe resembles awe. Viggo gently pats his shoulder and smiles at him before he nods his head into the direction of the breakfast room. “Come on.”

He has already made a couple of steps when Eric finds his voice again.

“Viggo-“ is all he manages to say, before Viggo cuts him off without even bothering to look back over his shoulder:

"I know, man, I love you, too, and now start walking or there won't be any waffles left."

"Those are not your shoes", Orlando remarks when Eric puts the plate with his dangerously swaying stack of waffles and toast onto the table, and his eyes are narrowing slightly.

"No", Eric simply says and sits down.

"They are mine", Viggo offers by way of explanation and squeezes into the seat between Eric and Sean.

"I sense there is a story there", Sean says with a grin and reaches out to steal half a toast from Viggo’s plate. Viggo swats at his hand but lets him have the toast and grabs a waffle instead which immediately finds its way into his mouth.

"Eric's shoes got peed on and we had to swap so we wouldn't be late for breakfast", he then says around it.

Sean barks out a laugh and with it a thin spray of crumbs. Viggo splays out one hand over his plate to protect his food but remains unfazed.

Orlando raises a questioning eyebrow. "Who did they get peed on by?"

"By me", Eric says without looking up from his plate.

Sean inhales part of his toast and starts to cough, and Viggo helpfully slaps his back to prevent him from choking, almost knocking him head-first into the table.

“You people are disgusting", Orlando says.

"Why, thank you, dear", Viggo says with an amicable smile and gives Sean's back one last affectionate pat before he helps himself to another waffle.

***

Philipp Haydock is a fourth former and he wants to be a psychologist which is why he takes his homework very seriously and sometimes stresses out about it. It's also why, on Thursday, 25th, at ten past eight, he slams his fist onto his desk – thereby causing his roommate to nearly fall off his bed – and grabs the three history books he has opened. They are contradictory and how is he expected to write a consistent essay with that kind of source material?

Thankfully, his history teacher is also his head of house, so he makes his way down the stairs and uses his sock-clad foot to knock on Mr B.'s door. He isn't worried, because while the books obviously are crap, he has all the faith in the world that Mr Bean will help him sort this out. Mr Bean is better than Wikipedia that way, and he's always really patient and – 

Philipp very nearly drops all three of his books when the door is pulled open. Mr Bean stands there, one hand on the door knob, the other holding a giant handkerchief to his nose. He looks down at Philipp, but Philipp doubts he can actually see him because his eyes are red and there are tears streaming down his face like his eyes were the leaky faucet in the lower floors lavatories. He noisily blows his nose.

What the actual hell?!

'Uh – ?' Philipp kind of squeaks, but before he can think of a polite way to ask Mr Bean why he is having an emotional breakdown in his doorway, there is a voice coming from inside.

'Sean!' It yells and Philipp is absolutely certain that it is Mr Bloom from this one word alone. There is no one who can sound as angry as Mr Bloom, though – and Philipp nearly drops his books again at the realisation – he actually sounds more upset than angry and that in itself is – 

'For fuck's sake, shut the fucking door, commercials are over!'

Mr Bean gives Philipp the quickest of once overs, like he is looking whether Philipp is suffering from a gaping head wound or something else that demands his immediate attention. When he doesn't find anything, he turns back into his flat and slams the door in Philipp's face.

'Come back in twenty minutes', he bellows through the wood. 'When Emmerdale is over.'

Philipp is left standing on his own in the hallway, clutching his books to his chest and re-thinking his life-choices. 

Maybe becoming a psychologist is not such a good idea. He'd have to deal with weirdos such as his head of house and his best friend.

***

(written by Noalinnea)

It’s pleasantly peaceful and comparatively quiet in the school grounds, and Sean has every intention to make most of his lunch break. He has taken his newspaper outside and is now sitting in the sun and about to open the sport’s section. Eric, who is sitting on the lawn next to him with his arms wrapped around his knees and his forehead resting against them, keeps dozing off, and Orlando is busy with a book and on his second cup of coffee. Cate’s eyes are closed and her face is turned into the sun, and as always, she is so beautiful that Sean’s heart aches a little. Either that, or it’s the onset of coronary heart disease. Sean clearly prefers the first option.  
A movement at the other side of the lawn catches his eyes, and when he looks up from the paper, he can see Viggo striding towards them, sporting a grin that is too huge for his face. Farewell, sweet, peaceful lunch break, farewell, he thinks and closes his newspaper.

Viggo’s grin gets even bigger when he reaches them. He cocks his head to the side and says pleasantly:

“Hey, how’s it hanging?”

Orlando almost pours coffee into his book when the mug slips from his fingers.

Eric opens his eyes and thoughtfully looks at Viggo for a moment, then shifts his legs a bit and says: “Left”, now sporting a grin that easily matches Viggo.

Viggo chuckles and looks oddly proud of Eric’s answer when he sits down next to him, right next to him, so that his leg and arm and shoulder are touching Eric’s. Of course.

Sean can tell what Orlando thinks about the Siamese twins’ public display of affection from the way his eyes are narrowing, but he has yet to comment on Viggo’s choice of salutation.

He opts for a clear and concise: “What on earth is wrong with you?” and glowers at Viggo.

Viggo just grins at him. “That, my friend, is the way JC’s student body greet one another nowadays.”

“As apparently are the teachers”, Sean says and watches Orlando’s eyes narrow even more.

“Only the imbeciles among them”, he then says with a little derisive snort, and ostentatiously opens his book again, probably because he is afraid that the combination of Eric’s and Viggo’s Cheshire cat grins might blind him.

“It’s quite exclusionary, though, if you think about it”, Cate now says and pulls at a blade of grass with her toes. “I mean, what am I supposed to answer?”

Orlando closes both his eyes and his book in exasperation.

Sean just can’t wait to see where this is going.

Eric looks thoughtful again, as does Viggo. He is quiet for a pleasantly long moment before he smiles at her and says: “I don’t know, maybe: ‘Thank you for asking, they are not’?”

Cate throws back her head and laughs, and there it is again, this little ache in his cardiac region. It’s Eric’s turn to look proud of Viggo’s answer, which he does, while Orlando just shakes his head in silent disappointment.

***

There is a pub quiz in the “Pony” every last Friday of a month. It's the one evening where Viggo publically announces he would rather be paired up with someone else than Eric. Eric is not shocked by this. He, too, wants to stray. He loves Viggo, but Viggo's particular way of meandering off in the middle of a thought is not necessarily the best of strategies.

Orlando and Sean would make an unbeatable team if it weren't for the fact that half the time it ends with them yelling at one another – Sean takes pub quizzes very seriously, Orlando takes everything very seriously. 

Karl hates pub quiz night because he has no interest at all in sitting down and guessing answers to random questions about James Bond actors or other shit like that. It's like fucking school, for fuck's sake. Also, it's seriously annoying that no one wants to let themselves beat at darts on those nights. Karl has to pay for his own pints, and that is just not right. 

Bernard on the other hand, never has to pay for anything on pub quiz nights. The myriad of completely useless facts as well as a knack for lucky guesses make him a very popular man. Usually, he pairs up neither with Viggo nor with Eric but with Dom, because the combination of Bernard's knowledge and Dom's ability to piss everyone around him off and throw them off their game? Not just a sure way to win, but absolutely hilarious as well. 

Nothing can seem foul to those who win, after all.

***

'What on earth are you doing?' Sean asks, even though he has eyes and can see it for himself.

Orlando looks up, gives him a beatific smile that definitely doesn't reach his eyes.

'I'm strangling baby birds', he says sweetly.

The heads of three third formers who happen to walk past swirl around and he is met by three looks of horror. Orlando drops his creepy smile and gives them his best 'really, people?' look of exasperation. Sean laughs out loud when this is met with relief on all three faces.

As the girls walk on, maybe a little quicker in order to get away from the table and bench at the pond, Sean sits himself down on the other side.

'Seriously now.'

Orlando doesn't bother picking up his smile this time.

'What's it look like, I'm grading papers', he says without looking up again.

Sean growls in response to that.

'The baby bird option would be less depressing, mate.'

Orlando doesn't reply. He does, however, raise the hand that isn't currently holding his red biro in order to flip Sean off. Sean ignores it, much like he always ignores Orlando's intentional and unintentional rudeness and for a moment, he watches the ducks on the pond. Two of the male ones clearly come from a troubled family; if they were pupils Sean would couch them for constantly picking on the others. But as it is, he doesn't have to, and the sun is shining and it's really all quite nice.

'Seriously, Sean?' Orlando asks.

Sean looks at him, and this time Orlando is looking back, very obvious exasperation etched into his features.

'Would you mind _not_ whistling?'

Sean breaks into a smile because he hasn't even noticed. Orlando shakes his head.

'I'm not saying you're not good at it –'

'Cheers.'

'Yeah, I'm not saying that because I know you're sensitive about it', Orlando backpedals because nice weather or not, he is not in the business of accidentally dishing out compliments. He nods at his papers, then narrows his eyes. 'Don't you have papers of your own to grade?'

Sean shrugs.

'Yep. Tons.'

Orlando drops his biro and rubs his temple.

''S that mean you're gonna do all of them tonight and call me till fuck knows when to complain about it?'

'That is a distinct possibility, aye. You could come over.'

Orlando lets out a sigh of epic proportions, then glares at the duck-hooligans on the lake. Then he folds up his papers and folds his hands over them.

'You have beer?'

Now it's Sean's turn to switch on his version of the 'really people?' look. Orlando nods, reassured.

'You cook?'

'Whatever ingredients you bring.'

Orlando nods again, eyes flickering towards the lake and the duck war happening there. They have drifted closer to the shore by now and two of them are apparently trying to kill each other now. Orlando picks up his biro and throws it at them. The biro hits the gang leader on the back and in what is possibly equal parts surprise and indignation, he flies away.

'Hey, if you drive to Tesco anyway', Sean says, 'you should maybe pick up new biros.'

***

'Oh, thank fuck. You're still alive.'

'That's a rather unconventional way of starting a conversation.'

'What?'

'How about, “Hello Dominic”. That would work.'

'I worry myself sick because of you and you come with etiquette?'

'I have no idea why you would be worried.'

'Also, I'd have said that my expression of concern is way more meaningful than any bland “hello” or “ahoy”.'

'Fascinating, this conversation is now fifteen seconds long and I'm already completely lost. Way to go, Gerry.'

'Do you want me to hang up on you?'

'Not particularly, but I wasn't the one calling in the first place.'

'Aye, that. I was worried about you. I never see you, you don't answer your door, I thought maybe Idris had murdered you.'

'Why would Idris kill me?'

'I don't know, because I don't talk to you anymore, do I? Perhaps some drug deal gone wrong?'

'Idris deals drugs?'

'How would I know?'

'And yet this is the first thing you assume.'

'Well, the alternative would have been you blew the two of you up.'

'Oh cheers.'

'See, and I knew that would happen, West, you taking offense, and so I opted for the other explanation. But it seems I'm always in the wrong here.'

'Gerry, is it possible that you have gotten even more dramatic over the last month?'

'What? Yes, probably. And we both know who to blame for that.'

'The pony club teenagers? You need better rolemodels.'

'Very funny. Why is ours such an abusive relationship.'

'Is it?'

'Yes.'

'I'm sorry. I didn't want to hurt your delicate sensibilities.'

'Even through the phone I can hear you're not genuine. AND you didn't answer your door?'

'When?'

'Five minutes ago.'

'I was under the shower, Gerry. I tend to not run to the door naked. Even if I had heard it, which I didn't.'

'Oh, okay.'

'You didn't honestly come over just to check whether I was still alive, did you?'

'Well, no. Karl made me babysit his dog while he was out bouldering with Beth, and your place is on the way.'

'Oh, okay.'

'Still, I'm glad you're not dead.'

'That makes two of us. - So you brought Boris back to Karl now?'

'Yes, and he and I had a lengthy discussion about me not wanting to carry him up the stairs.'

'Who won?'

'We met in the middle. He walked for the first two, I carried him the last two.'

'That's very considerate of you, Gerry.'

'I know.'

'So, any other plans for the day?'

'Nothing in particular, why?'

'I'm free as well. Idris told me about this room escape game in York, it sounded quite amusing. Apparently, what you have to – hang on a moment -'

'Why?'

'There's someone at the door.'

'So, now you answer it?'

'I told you, I was under the shower earlier. Anyway, I've never done this escape room thing, but I thought that maybe -'

'Ahoy, West.'

'What?'

'Now, is this a way to greet a visitor?'

'How on earth did you get here so – you never left, did you?'

'Nope, sat on your doorstep, in case I heard cries for help coming from your flat.'

'How considerate of you.'

'West?'

'Yes, Gerry?'

'Considering that we are standing in front of each other, you think I can hang up now? Cause I've already used up all my free minutes.'

***

(written by Noalinnea)

Miranda claims she merely happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Gerry begs to differ: He is sure she did this on purpose, this little blissful smile she now wears all day gives her away. And even worse, she did this to steal his mojo. Because come on, your students might love you, but if your colleagues start coming to their classes followed by a horde of too-cute-to-be-real fluffy ducklings it’s just not a fair fight anymore. Because of course everybody loves them, the whole damned school, from the janitor to the tiniest first former. Even Boris (for whom Gerry had much higher hopes) adores the shit out of them (instead of just opting for duck meat for lunch). It’s so not fair. There even was some sort of naming contest, and now the fluffy fuckers are called names that are bound to give you instant diabetes (Gerry swears he is already pissing sugar): Abigail, Adelaide, Cornflake, Buttercup and Sunshine. Those are the five the students got to name (and it’s such a shame. Gerry really had higher hopes for them as well. Well, for some.). The four remaining ones were named by the staff, and Gerry has a hard time deciding if the names his formerly cherished colleagues chose aren’t just as worse: Kant, Cricketta, Lady and Bottrop, for crying out loud. As if Sunshine and Buttercup weren’t outrageous enough. Seriously. He will never speak to any of them again, never. And move to a country far, far away (Iceland, probably. Because they have nice ponies. And not even Eric and his other half are bound to swing by there on one of their haphazard road trips. Iceland sounds just like the place to be, the longer he thinks about it. Also, he has heard that they are eating puffins there, and decimating the bird population by ingestion has a certain appeal, he won’t deny that. And he surely would look good in one of those sweaters.). Just look at them, they can’t even walk properly, the whole bunch looks as if they just had a stroke (and not a minor one), he thinks, as he watches Miranda slowly walks them over the lawn to the pond, probably to give them swimming lessons or a bubble bath or something equally stupid. She makes those annoying little cooing noises that she has developed and that the little yellow feather dusters answer with a deafening quacking concerto.  
A startled cry rips Gerry out of his sinister thoughts and loud and agitated croaking, and he looks up just in time to see a crow nose-dive towards the last staggering little yellow dot in the line. Fierce as a lioness Miranda lunges in its directions and it retreats, but only to turn and fly an attack at the next little staggering pipsqueak, now aided by another one of his kind. Miranda frantically tries to protect all nine of her little ones at the same time, an undertaking that is bound to fail tragically and end in bloodshed, Gerry is sure about that, because instead of running towards her and hiding under her feathers (or whatever) they are all over the place looking for cover. And Gerry strongly suspects that hiding under one of Viggo’s baby trees just won’t offer enough protection from a murderous crow. But before he has had time to properly finish that thought his feet are already moving, and then he is out there on the lawn and reaches one of the ducklings just in time to prevent it from dying a very painful- if colorful- death. In want of a better idea he bends down and quickly scoops the agitatedly quacking little thing into his hands and then unceremoniously lifts up them hem of his t-shirt and dumps it into the make-shift bag. This way he manages to collect three of its siblings while Miranda stuffs four others into the little basket she now carries everywhere. For a moment they are then spinning around on their heels, unable to make out the missing duckling, the crows still croaking angrily over their heads, and Gerry starts to fear the worst (as does Miranda, to judge from her face). But then he hears her laugh in relief and when he follows her line of sight he sees it, too: It’s crouching next to a giant buttercup, still as a statue and completely silent (it must bethe one with brains, then.). When Miranda bends down to pick it up, her hand is trembling a little, as is her voice when she turns to thank him. Through the thin cotton of his t-shirt Gerry can feel the flurry of four little pair of duck feet against his stomach while their owners are trying to get back to the human they are convinced is their mommy. When he tries to grab one of them to return them to Miranda, he can feel their little blunt beaks against his skin, and their soft feathers (softer than the softest hair on a woman’s nape), and he feels an involuntary smile spreading on his face that does not stem from satisfaction over the fact that these little creatures would have been dead meat had they relied on their weird ineffective beaks for protection. Damn, but aren’t they cute.

***

Gerry opens his mouth, then closes it again. He looks at Eric. Eric has somehow forgotten the concept of blinking. Then, very slowly, he looks at Gerry as if to confirm that his eyes aren't broken.

'Yeah, I'm seeing it, too', Gerry says in what he hopes is a supportive, calming voice. It's not his fault that he sounds hysterical.

Now Eric opens his mouth, and then closes it. Then he makes a vague gesture at the inside of the rehearsal room before crossing his arms in front of his chest in a sort of defensive way. Gerry can relate, thinks that this is actually a good idea – you know, in case of an attack – and follows suit.

Then Eric finds his voice back.

'Uhm, Johnny?' he says, and waits until Johnny, seated on the floor, looks up at him. 'What's uhm, this about, mate?'

Johnny gives Eric one of his wide-eyed stares that always makes Gerry think he needs to go and see an eye-doctor (or a head-doctor, really).

'You mean my army?' he asks.

Eric looks at Gerry. Gerry looks at Eric. Then the two of them both look back at Johnny who is sitting on the floor, surrounded by about 20 [Transformers from the early 1980s](http://cdn.ebaumsworld.com/mediaFiles/picture/2192630/85120711.jpg), some rather severely damaged.

'Yeah', says Gerry. Not in response to Johnny's question but more as an acknowledgment of this situation in general.

'I think we can just come back later', says Eric and Gerry can feel him walking backing away. He follows suit. There is no way he's gonna stay on his own.

'Bye, Johnny', says Gerry.

'Calling all autobots!' replies Johnny.

Outside of the theatre building, Eric elbows Gerry in the side.

'Seriously, every time I think he can't get any more unhinged, he does something like this.'

Gerry shakes his head in agreement.

'I think we need to get Aldis to hack into his eBay account,' he says reasonably. 'And have him delete it.'

***

Of all of JC's houses, Viggo's is the one with the biggest common area. It stretches over three levels, connected by two flights of symmetrical stairs. The lower section is fitted with leather couches and armchairs that are constantly being moved around into new groups, their feet having left innumerable scratch marks on the wooden floor. The view out the large veranda doors is actually quite beautiful, this side of the house facing the lawn and the forest beyond. But thanks to the big television screen mounted on the brick wall, it is sadly neglected most of the time. The hot summer months are an exception, of course, it's then that the veranda doors are constantly open and pupils stream in and out, completely ignoring the actual front door and leaving grass and mud everywhere. When Viggo took over the house,the walls of the upper level were still fitted with a heavy dark wood paneling, but now there is a large mural on the left, depicting bits and pieces from JC's school crest in various painting styles, ranging from manga to abstract. The other walls are painted in something that looks like blood to everyone but Viggo, who picked the colour and insists that it is supposed to evoke a sense of calmness and peace. Regardless of the head of house, pupils dubbed it the red room, shortened to redrum, a joke both Eric and Viggo suspect hardly any of the kids actually get. There are sofas there as well, but most of them are pushed to the walls and hardly ever used nowadays; this generation of boarders having decided that the huge grey shag pile carpet in the middle of the room is perfect for frolicking about on. Sometimes, when one of the bookworms on the carpet (which is where they tend to gravitate) feels too bothered by the noise from below, there is the occasional object thrown over the half-high ironcast banister. Most of the times it just lands on the middle level's floor, but there was this one incident when a sixth former was just about to clear the pool table all in one go, when a shoe hit him in the head, ruining his perfect score. 

A while back, when all of Europe decided it was romantic to leave locks inscribed with lovers' initials on every bridge's railing, Viggo's kids started doing the same with the iron banisters. Today, there is only one left, and to be candid, it actually was Eric who started it, and his being the little green lock that is still fitted around the iron rod furthest to the left. The two letters “VB” were misleading enough for no pupil to ever suspect him. Viggo laughed until he cried when he saw it and instantly said it was dedicated to his butt. It wasn't, nor was it supposed to stand for 'Viggo Bana'. It was supposed to mean Viggo's brain, and in his inebriated state, Eric's thought that incredibly clever.

***

Mr Bloom is leaning against the kitchen's counter and stirring his coffee. Mikael isn't really sure what that is about because it's not like there is sugar or creamer in it. It's just pitch black coffee, and Mr Bloom is stirring it, his eyes following the spoon's motion instead of looking at Mikael.

Mikael stands in the middle of the kitchen and doesn't know what do do with his hands. They twitch and he wants to slide them into the pockets of his tracky bums, but there's candy wrappers in there and they'd make noise. So he just stands there, and his thumb worries at the cut he got on his palm at rugby practice yesterday.

A pudgy first year suddenly rounds the corner into the kitchen at full speed, empty cereal bowl in his hand. He grinds to a halt, or at least tries to, his sock-clad feet sliding on for half a metre, so he nearly crashes into the fridge. Mr Bloom looks up. The first year freezes, his bowl held up in an angle that would make Mikael mock him for fucking ever in any other situation. As it is, he does nothing. Mr Bloom doesn't say anything, he doesn't even push himself away from the counter. But the first year still gets it. He shoves his bowl into the dishwasher, china clattering because his eyes keep darting to Mr Bloom instead of watching what he is doing. When he is done, he takes a couple of steps backwards, before pelting around and diving out the door, out of harm's way. 

Mr Bloom is still not standing up straight, and even if he were, Mikael would have at least two inches on him. And still, when he turns his head and looks at Mikael, it's like Mikael's body forgets that it's 6'3'' and everything rugby has beaten into him about posture and -

'Mikael, you're sixteen', Mr Bloom says.

Mikael knows how old he is. He doesn't say anything.

'You're a minor', Mr Bloom says. 'I'm obliged to inform your parents about this.'

Mikael knows that as well. It still makes him cringe.

In the silence of the kitchen, the scraping of Mr Bloom's spoon on the bottom of the mug is loud.

'Do I look like I _want_ to have this conversation?' Mr Bloom asks.

Mikael looks up from the checked floor tiles. There isn't really a particularly special expression on Mr Bloom's face, it's just that his face's default setting is a very firm and no-nonsense 'No' anyway.

'Soz', Mikael says, and his thumb worries the cut on his hand.

'I bet', Mr Bloom says. 'Which is why this keeps occurring.'

Mikael looks down at the tiles once more. There is a blotch of jam stuck to the corner of a black one.

'Why does it?' Mr Bloom asks.

Mikael lifts his left shoulder in an awkward shrug. Mr Bloom makes his sound of annoyance; though not the really bad one.

'Don't give me that', he says. 'It's not like it happens accidentally. Is that supposed to be some sort of civic protest?'

Mikael scrunches his brows together.

'What?' he asks. Because, what?

Mr Bloom just nods.

'Yeah, thought not. Then why does it?'

Mikael shrugs.

'Won't again, Mr Bloom. Promise.'

This time, the sound coming from Mr Bloom's lips _is_ bad annoyance. He puts his mug down on the counter and crosses his arms in front of his chest.

'That's a lie and we both know it.'

It is. But it's not like Mikael can explain it himself. Or control it. It's like a play gone wrong in a match, and suddenly you end up on the bottom of a pile. Only it's not like that at all. It's better, and it's worse at the same time, and sometimes it scares Mikael more than Mr Bloom does. With the tip of his trainer, he pushes at the blotch of jam on the tile. It doesn't budge.

'Soz.'. 

'Yeah, yeah, I don't care', Mr Bloom says. When he doesn't add anything else, Mikael glances up at him again. Mr Bloom's dark eyes rest on him.

'Are you safe?' he asks.

Mikael pulls a face. Mr Bloom's eyes narrow.

'Don't give me that. Someone who is stupid enough to get caught four times is stupid enough for anything.'

'I wasn't -' Mikael starts protesting, because of _course_ they were, they always are, and that wasn't why he was cringing. It was because it's his teacher, it's _Mr Bloom_ asking. But Mr Bloom glares at him, and Mikael nods. 'Yeah. Course.'

The taut line of Mr Bloom's jaw relaxes fractionally. 

'That's at least something, I guess.'

Mikael bites down on the inside of his lip. He nods, and looks down at the floor again. Outside, a bunch of girls run down the staircase, down into the common room in the basement, their laughter carrying into the kitchen.

'Look', Mr Bloom says. 'I'm possibly required to ask you to tell me why this keeps happening and what this – ' he makes a vague gesture in Mikael's direction, 'is, and whether you're happy with it.' 

Mikael stuffs his hands into his pockets after all. He knows it's fine and everything, but he's not like Jay. Jay can talk about shit, he can talk for half an hour to a teacher, like, deep and meaningful shit, and not even listen to his own words, and still leave the impression he's opened up and been honest about feelings and stuff. Mikael is not like that. He'd rather listen to Mr Bean go on about that fucking disgrace of a footie club of his than try and share anything with him, or Mr Bloom, or anyone really, even if he did have the words. Well, maybe Jay. But as it is, this is stupid, and he has melted chocolate sticking to his right hand.

Mr Bloom rubs his temple.

'Do you want me to ask?' he asks. He sounds like ManU was relegated.

Mikael pulls a face and shakes his head. Mr Bloom makes a huffing sort of sound of acknowledgment. 

'I'm not calling your parents.'

Mikael's shoulders relax a bit, and breathing is easier now when he nods.

'Cheers, Mr Bloom.'

Mr Bloom grunts and picks up his coffee.

'Yeah. Next time, though, I will. And I will ask. And neither of us will like it.' He stops and waits until Mikael looks up from the floor again, hand clenching and unclenching around the chocolate wrapper. 'I mean it, Mikael. You need to stop having sex with your boyfriend in public spaces.'


	4. June, July, August, September 2017

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> These are the bits and bobs from June to September 2017. With some great bits again written by LJ's / DW's Noalinnea.

'So, what are we doing for John's retirement?' Gerry asks, his head buried in the depths of Dominic's fridge.

'Nothing', says Tom, shifting his feet on Dominic's coffee table. 'He's a fucker.'

'Who is John?' asks Idris. He is sitting in Dominic's favourite armchair.

'Why are you all in my flat?' asks Dominic.

'He is a fucker', repeats Tom.

'He's not, he's belter', says Gerry.

'He's a fucker.'

'He's not.'

Idris watches the back and forth with the abject interest of someone accidentally having switched on Japanese table tennis. Dominic gently but firmly pushes Gerry away from the fridge. 

'There really is no need to add to global warming by eating my cake directly from the fridge', he says because there isn't and that was what Gerry was doing. Gerry grumbles, but lets himself be pushed, pulling the cake plate out at the last second and taking it back with him to the living room.

'Who is John?' reiterates Idris from Dominic's chair.

'He's -' both Tom and Gerry start again.

'He's a teacher at Jackson College', Dominic cuts in. 'Head of Blue Erebor Manor – don't ask, I have no idea who came up with a name as pretentious as this – and he's retiring this summer.'

'Also,' Tom says and picks up a vase from the side table next to the sofa to toy with it. 'He's a fucker.'

Dominic walks over and takes the vase from Tom's hand and puts it somewhere else, somewhere safe, somewhere out of the reach of Tom's P.E. teacher man paws.

'He's not', Gerry contradicts him around a mouthful of cake.

Idris looks at Dominic.

'John had a giant birthday bash about a month ago', Dominic says. 'Everyone was invited and there was lobster.'

'There wasn't', Tom shouts (P.E. teachers apparently don't have indoor voices.)

'There was', says Gerry, licking his lips. 'It was braw. I ate about my weight in lobster.'

Dominic nods, looks at Idris.

'That is accurate. Which is why they ran out of lobster before Tom arrived who thought it necessary to finish watching some football match before showing up.'

'It was the fucking Championsleague, you fucker', Tom yells.

Idris nods.

'I see. And now he is retiring? Can't see why.'

Dominic decides that Idris is his new favourite person in Yorkshire. He'll probably not tell Gerry. He's out of tissues.

'He is,' Gerry says and thinks it's a good idea to stuff a huge chunk of cake into his mouth in the middle of his sentence. 'An' dad's why we all will drow 'im a bi' bash.'

'We're not', Tom says. 'Because he's a fucker.'

Dominic rubs his temple.

'Seriously, what _are_ you all doing in my flat?'

***

Two things six of JC's staffers do on 2/6/2017:

Gerry goes to the bakery to buy pear cake. Because he knows West loves pear cake (to be fair, who doesn't) and he feels a little bad that West had his version of an emotional breakdown (his brows twitched) when Tom accidentally dropped that ugly vase of his. So he buys him cake. Okay, fine the cake thing was mainly an excuse to go to the bakery because Gerry really fancies the woman behind the counter. She's got a ponytail, a son, and that kind of laugh that – if it were a puddle and Gerry was a dog – Gerry would want to roll around in.

Gerry also eats most of the cake himself and then has to give the last piece to a crying first former he finds on the street who has had an argument with his skateboard and lost.

Orlando has an argument with Johnny about project-based-learning-week. Orlando is actually the only person who ever bothers and / or dares to argue with Johnny. Irresistible and dickish force, meet immovable and whacky object. Orlando insists that p-b-l-week is NOT an excuse to play pirates on JC school grounds and very politely asked Johnny to take down the advertisement posters he painted and covered the drama building in. Johnny is disinclined to acquiesce Orlando's request.

Orlando spends a blissful lunchbreak arguing with people on the internet about Stephen Mulhall's The Great Riddle. People on the internet are idiots. Stephen Mulhall is an idiot.

Eric has one of Viggo's idiot kids – the one with the exhibistionistic tendencies, whatshisface – washing the Falcon as a punishment for... Eric can't really remember what it was. He ends up washing the Falcon himself, of course, with the clumsy kid standing at a safe distance.

Eric supervises cricket practice and doesn't actually think it is his job to tell his team to apply sunscreen before starting. They all end up looking like lobsters in sweater vests.

Sean spends fifteen minutes he didn't have before breakfast mending a hole in one of his socks. It's not like he hasn't got socks without holes (well, he reckons he must have, what are the chances, right) but he is trying to prove a point to Orlando (who gave him this particular pair of socks the colour of the bi-flag for his birthday last year) that he does take care of his things.

Sean also spends about two hours before tea sitting in the main building's big common room together with Josephine Wax and Matthew Fisher, trying to mend a pocket watch that Josephine bought on the internet.

Craig binge-watches his DVDs of [„Ein Herz und eine Seele“ ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ein_Herz_und_eine_Seele) which arrives in the post this morning. To brush up his German skills. And also because Alfred's spontaneous rants remind him of Christopher.

Craig also pretty much finances his next short-trip to Germany by fleecing half the 'Pony' (but mostly Karl) in a lengthy poker game.

Kiele, for the thousand's time, has to explain to her third form bio class that no, vegetables do not play an integral part in sex. One of these days she is going to have her husband feed Gerry to an aligator. For purely educational purposes.

[Kiele and Matt](https://www.cloudpix.co/kiele-sanchez-and--ef-jacqui-passmore-matt-passmore-779151.html) decide on a spontaneous barbeque in the garden of their house and kind of nearly buy half of Tesco's... everything. They are enthuiastic about barbeque, okay?

***

The weather on this Saturday is ideal for a drive, that much is clear at 6 a.m. And really, Eric hasn't had a chance to properly drive his baby since the Easter holidays which is why he kicks Viggo out of bed and decides for the two of them to go on a roadtrip. Viggo kind of responds on autopilot for twenty minutes, and Eric actually has to keep a hold onto his arm to keep him from sleepwalking to his classroom or something. However, as soon as he deposited him on the passenger seat of the Falcon and the gravel in JC's driveway crunches under the wheels, Viggo is suddenly awake. That might have something to do with the coffee that Eric force-fed him half an hour previous. Or with the fantastic weather. Or with the prospect of a day on the road with Eric.

Whatever it is, Viggo has breakfast (a Mars bar that Eric buys him at the petrol station) and takes charge of the trip. With Eric behind the wheel it should be Viggo to play human satnav, but because he is Viggo and because the petrol station had paperbacks on display at the register, he opts for something else.

'Okay, I'm gonna read this out loud', he announces, and Eric, with his eyes on the road, only catches a glimpse of the cover of the newly acquired book Viggo is waving, 'And every time a chapter ends, we have to change direction. Say, you're on the motorway and a chapter ends? You take the next exit.'

Now, Eric could argue that this will possibly have them driving around in circles. He could also ask what kind of book is interesting enough to read out loud when one could just enjoy the road. He does neither, of course. First of all, he wouldn't _care_ if they drove around in circles, and second of all, Viggo could read the Falcon's manual to him (okay, bad example, that is actually fascinating literature) and Eric would still be happy.

As it is, Viggo's petrol station purchase is Sjowal/Wahlöo's 'The Laughing Policeman' and whilst a whodunnit, set in Stockholm in the 1960s, doesn't really fit a sunny Yorkshire day, the story is actually brilliant. Also, Viggo is doing different voices.

Viggo's creative satnav decision means that they are forced to have a late breakfast in what is possibly Scotland's oldest petrol station with Scones older than the Laughing Policeman. It also means that around two they make a stop in a village with a name Eric can't pronounce where he has the best fish and chips of his entire lifetime. They book themselves into a really pretty sketchy hotel when the story concludes, and Eric is very sure that no one in the history of ever would've voluntarily picked this spot on the outskirts of Western Scotland as a weekend trip destination. However, his Falcon has been purring happily all day and is now parked on the (gated) parking lot of the hotel, the company in the hotel's restaurant consists of very lively llong distance lorry drivers who promise to be entertaining company, and Viggo returns from his scouting mission with another book for the trip back tomorrow.

Eric's life is pretty wonderful, all things considered.

***

When, in the early afternoon hours of Whitmonday, Eric and Viggo return to JC from their spontaneous roadtrip, Eric is slightly sunburned and Viggo looks like he just fell out of bed. The first is due to the fact that Eric did not listen when Viggo (and pretty much everyone else on that beach in Scotland yesterday) told him to put on sunscreen, no matter how much the sea breeze did to cool his skin down. 

The latter is not all that surprising since Viggo just spent the last five hours asleep in the Falcon while Eric was singing along to the radio. After yesterday's bumming about on the beach, Eric pretty much just faceplanted onto the bed and slept the dreamless sleep of the righteous (and sunburned). Viggo, on the other hand, didn't. When Eric woke around three in the night, he saw Viggo sitting on the balcony of their hotel room. He wasn't exactly howling at the moon or anything, but Viggo informed Eric upon enquiring that this was only because he didn't fancy getting beaten up by lorry drivers who needed their beauty sleep. Eric started to prepare him a cup of tea from the supplies of the hotel's tray of complimentary goodness, forehead propped against the wall and eyes closed while the kettle took its time to start boiling. He was sort of slumbering like that but would've been able to make the tea, he absolutely would've, but Viggo came in, wrapped an arm around Eric's waist and leaned his forehead against Eric's hunched shoulder. 

They do a pitstop in the village's bakery, or Eric does, since Viggo is mostly occupied blinking owlishly at the world at large. It's only when Eric parks behind the house and murmurs praise to the Falcon, that Viggo looks down at the neatly wrapped package that is sitting on his thighs.

'What did you buy?' he asks.

'Birthday cake', replies Eric and gets out.

Viggo blinks a bit more, until Eric opens the passenger side's door for him.

'Did I forget the birthday of one of the kids?' Viggo asks.

Holding the door open, Eric rubs his sunburned nose and shrugs.

'How would I know?'

Viggo nods.

'But hey, probability is high that it's _someone's_ birthday', Eric continues. 'And besides, it has a unicorn and a prideflag on it. Like I'd say no to that.'

Viggo nods again and gets out of the car.

***

There is a knock on Sean's door that interrupts him right before Henry VIII can behead yet another unfortunate woman. Sean finishes his sentence but remains seated in his favourite armchair. When he stays silent for ten seconds, the eyes of the twelve kids from his A-level, strewn around the room like fallen soldiers, almost simultaneously look up from their papers.

'Well, I'm not gonna get it', Sean says with a nod at the small hallway leading to the door. Eight of the pairs of eyes flicker down to the textbook again. Sean rolls his; his fucking kids are a fucking pest. Victoria Biene pushes her glasses up her nose and cocks her head.

'Do you want me to get it, Mr B.?' she asks.

Ramona Wilkins next to her frowns and shakes her head before stealing a highlighter from Victoria's pencil case.

'If you would be so kind', Sean says with a chuckle, then adds, to the room at large, as Victoria gets up from her place on the carpet. 'The manners of you lot.'

'We're busy', Louise Papadopulos mutters, as if one of Sean's mates just interrupted their last minute exam prep to ask him out for a bit of keepie-uppie. 'Exams are on Friday, so chop chop.'

'Can we go over Oliver Cromwell again, Mr B.?' asks Natasha Needham whilst furiously crossing out large sections on her notepad. 'Cause I don't get the fucking civil war.'

'Language', says Sean, as he hears Victoria closing the door again.

Natasha rolls her eyes.

'Can we go over Oliver Cromwell and the _bloody_ civil war again?' she corrects herself, inadvertently smiling at her own pun.

Sean is about to reply with a summary of just how bloody that particular altercation was, when Victoria rounds the corner into his sitting room again. She is carrying a silver thermos flask in her hand and eyes it like it possibly contains uranium.

'Where'd you get that?' asks Rakesh Patil from his shelter half under Sean's dining table. 'And what is it?'

Victoria climbs over several of her fellow A-level kids in order to get to Sean.

'It's honeyed tea', she says, sounding uncertain. The reason for her skepticism becomes evident when she adds, 'Mr Bloom brought it.'

Now, indeed everyone is looking up from their textbook. Sean smiles and takes the flask.

'And he didn't want to join us?' he asks, even though he knows the answer.

Victoria shakes her head and shifts on her sock-clad feet.

'He said', she starts, then lets her voice drop into a fairly decent imitation of Orlando's, 'make sure he drinks this, otherwise his throat will be sore come tomorrow and I won't hear the end of it. Also, why aren't you long done with your revisions anyway?'

Sean uncaps the flask and the smell of strong tea laced with honey instantly fills the room.

'Same thing he says every year. Now, where were we?'

***

Christopher is hardly ever diplomatic and he is very firm in his opinions. Privately, Cate appreciates both most of the time – in combination with Ian's all encompassing 'we're in this together, folks' attitude ('hippy-dippy-Woodstock-pedagogics' as some people (Bernie) like to call it), they make for an efficient team of headmasters. But it also means that there is a myriad of issues that can cause people to leave Christopher's office with a storm cloud over their heads, too many to say really.

There is an exception, of course, which is when Orlando and Viggo re-enter the staff room together after half an hour with Christopher. The topics that unite the two of them are ridiculously few, and since Cate is pretty certain that they weren't shouting their throats raw over the superiority of pistachio ice cream, there is a 90% chance that their visit to the headmaster's office was either about an LGBT related issue or about the school board's view on field trips abroad.

Orlando looks like he wants to kill someone – maybe preferably Christopher, but Cate supposes that he would also behead a first year without even hesitating if said unfortunate kid would stumble in his path at this moment. His brows are narrowed and his pupils are blown wide enough to turn his eyes almost entirely black, and every single one of his motions as he crosses the staff room is filled with so much tension and hardness that steel would get an inferiority complex if compared to him now. 

It's oddly counterbalanced and stressed both by Viggo who looks like he wants to kill himself. His gaze is unable to hold onto a single object for longer than the fraction of a second, and his entire body seems to be fidgety with frustration. 

Cate, who had initially just gotten up to fetch herself a cup of coffee, doesn't return to where she sat before, with Eric and Sean. Instead she sits down next to Dom West to watch from a safe distance. West glances up at her, noting that she isn't Gerry, then over to Orlando and Viggo who almost made it back to their table, then minimally rolls his eyes. Yeah, that's the reason why Cate is keeping away as well.

'One day I will fucking kill that fucking prick,' Orlando says, voice not particularly loud but every syllable hard and pronounced and carrying.

Viggo rubs his hand across his forehead, hard enough to leave an angry red streak.

Dom West very demonstratively raises his book to block out the view. Cate crosses her legs, takes a sip from her cup.

Because the same reason why she is keeping away? Is what kept Eric and Sean at their table.

Eric, his eyes just briefly registering the mark Viggo's hand left on his forehead, pushes back the chair next him in invitation. Viggo shifts from one foot to the other, rubs his forehead again. Eric nods in invitation. Viggo slumps down.

'So it didn't go so well?' he asks, almost too quietly for Cate to hear.

Viggo shakes his head.

Sean gets up from his chair.

'Aw, you need a hug?' he says to Orlando, voice too loud and with a big smile on his face.

'Fuck off', Orlando grunts.

There was the briefest flash of bafflement on his face, however, and of course that's what Sean acts on.

'C'mon, it'll make you feel better', he says, starting to round the table to get to him.

Orlando's anger is temporarily banished for the kind of disgust Cate otherwise only sees on second form boys when girls want to kiss them.

'Touch me and I'll fucking kill _you_ ', he says, walking backwards.

Sean laughs and catches up with him, arms now raised.

'You and what army, elfling?' he asks and envelops Orlando in a hug.

'Stop it, you wanker', Orlando protests and uses both his hands to push at Sean's chest whilst walking backwards and into a table. 'I want to murder you more than I want to murder Christopher right now.'

Sean just laughs and still doesn't let go of him. It's Viggo who, one arm resting on Eric's shoulder, turns around, Eric's quiet smile mirrored on his face now, says, 

'Oi, Orlando, get your priorities straight, all right?'

'I fucking hate you all', Orlando mutters in response. He drops his arms to his sides and stands like a particularly displeased totem pole as Sean now uses the hug to keep himself upright because he is laughing too hard to stand on his own.

***

(written by Noalinnea)

Eric's eyes keep falling shut and his mind starts to quieten pleasantly, but then Viggo turns next to him with an impatient sigh. Eric adjusts his head on the pillow and closes his eyes again. The mattress dips when Viggo turns again. Eric tries to concentrate on his breathing- in- out- in- out- in- out… in…- out… Viggo’s knee hits his leg when he turns, again, and drowsily, Eric reaches out for him without opening his eyes. His fingers make contact with Viggo’s thigh.  
“What’s up?” he asks into his pillow.

Viggo sighs. “I can’t sleep.”

Eric would chuckle at his indignation if he wasn’t half-asleep.

“Mmh”, manages to say. “Figures.” He takes a deep breath and turns onto his side, now facing Viggo. “Why not, though?”

Viggo sighs again, now sounding impatient. “Christopher…” He doesn’t finish the sentence, and doesn’t have to. Eric slides his hand up Viggo’s side until it comes to rest on his shoulders. He squeezes it lightly.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks quietly.

Viggo huffs. “Not in bed, no. I’m not taking this bastard to bed with us.”

Eric refrains from remarking that he already has, sort of, but considers it wiser to just ask: “Do you want to get up and talk about it?”

He can feel Viggo shake his head rather than see it in the darkness surrounding them and hears him sigh again. “No.”

Eric really wants to go back to sleep. “What do you want, then?” he murmurs, trying to keep his eyes open.

“I don’t know”, Viggo says, now sounding so miserable that Eric opens his eyes again and leans forward to press a kiss against his forehead. He misses his target by a couple of centimeters and his lips land on Viggo’s jaw. For a moment Eric nuzzles against the stubble there, until Viggo turns his head. For a couple of moments they are simply sharing a breath, but then Viggo kisses him. When their lips meet, Eric realizes that he should probably be more awake for this, Viggo’s kiss is as impatient as he has sounded a second earlier. He slides one of his hands into Eric’s hair to pull him closer and his tongue into his mouth. Eric just surrenders and decides to go with the flow, if sleeping is off the agenda they might as well make most of it. He can feel Viggo get hard against his thigh when he answers the kiss, and when Viggo breathlessly asks him to touch him, he does. It’s a bit uncoordinated in the dark, and Eric feels as if it’s not his best performance ever, but Viggo doesn’t seem to care, and does half of the work himself by thrusting into Eric’s hand.

Viggo makes the most amazing little sound when he comes, and Eric tries to store it away in a safe place in his mind while he drops a kiss onto Viggo’s nose. He knows that the arm Vigo uses as a pillow now is probably going to fall asleep along with Viggo in a moment and knows that in the morning he will regret not washing his sticky hand but just wiping it on the sheets, but he would much rather deal with a Viggo who has slept six hours than with one who hasn't. Tucked into his side and now breathing calmly, Viggo tightens his one armed embrace around Eric.

“Thank you”, he whispers.

Eric’s lips find his temple and he reaches out with the arm not trapped underneath Viggo’s head to pull the covers over them.

“Sleep tight now”, he says quietly.

Viggo just hums, and Eric can feel his lips curling into a smile against his shoulder.

***

'Anyway, Orlando', Gerry says, as per usual not bothering with a segue at all, 'and I'm saying this with love, but you need to get laid.'

Eric, who had already opened his mouth to reply to Orlando's remark about ManU, closes it again. Orlando very slowly turns his head towards Gerry. All lower six formers within hearing distance (and it's a lot, considering they are sitting cramped on wooden benches in front of [the National Coal Mining Museum](https://www.google.de/maps/place/National+Coal+Mining+Museum+for+England/@53.6434788,-1.6194155,3a,75y,90t/data=!3m8!1e2!3m6!1s-pydxVVZLrvM%2FWA0a-yUl4uI%2FAAAAAAAACNs%2F7l-9HyVq4zgA59oG-otiNzr6XKh_UwY4QCLIB!2e4!3e12!6s%2F%2Flh6.googleusercontent.com%2F-pydxVVZLrvM%2FWA0a-yUl4uI%2FAAAAAAAACNs%2F7l-9HyVq4zgA59oG-otiNzr6XKh_UwY4QCLIB%2Fw152-h86-k-no%2F!7i4032!8i2268!4m5!3m4!1s0x0:0x2d02835844c12df!8m2!3d53.6435731!4d-1.6194756!6m1!1e1)) collectively wish they were anywhere but here.

'Excuse me?' Orlando says.

Gerry leans forward, elbows on the unvarnished wood.

'I said you should have sex with someone', he repeats. 'Possibly soon.'

Jonas Raymond, who is sitting next to him, subtly tries distancing himself from the suicidal person and ends up falling off the bench.

Orlando leans forward as well, hands folded on the table.

'There is nothing wrong with my hearing, Gerry', he says very calmly. 'That wasn't the issue.'

'Oh aye, good. I wasn't worried either; too little sex doesn't cause bad hearing.'

'You don't say', Orlando says, still in that calm voice of his. Eric glances at Jonas Raymond who opted on staying on the grass for now. Possibly to be able to dive under the next table, to safety. Smart kid.

Meanwhile, Gerry helps himself to a slice of apple from Joa Sanchez's plastic box. Joa looks like he wants to object but then thinks better of it and returns to pretending he was invisible.

'You should have more sex', Gerry says and shoves the entire apple slice between his lips like this might be the last opportunity for it. Which, given the look on Orlando's face might very well be true.

'I'm not discussing my sex life with you, Gerry', Orlando says, tapping his fingers onto the tabletop.

Gerry shrugs and makes a dismissive gesture.

'I'm not asking you to. I'm just saying', and he raises his voice slightly, to a teacher-talking-to-his-class level, so even the kids at the next table can benefit from his wisdom. 'Sex is all kinds of good for you, and I'm saying this as an expert.'

Out of the six girls sitting closest, Lisa Maher's head is possibly the reddest; she looks like a tomato. Larissa Madden starts giggling. Gerry grins at both of them.

'As a biologist, I mean', he specifies and then starts ticking things off with his fingers. 'It's scientifically proven that sex boosts your immune system, improves your sleep and because of the workout it gives your pelvic region it also does wonders for your bladder control.'

Now all six girls look like tomatoes. Gerry helps himself to another apple slice, then turns back to Orlando.

'It also reduces the chances of prostate cancer and – and this is why I am mentioning it, mate – it eases stress and reduces the risk of heart attack. Something you might benefit from.'

Orlando leans back on his bench and regards Gerry for a long moment. Joa tries shifting away from Gerry's other side as well but can't because Gerry is holding onto his box of apple slices. Then Eric sees the corner of Orlando's mouth twitching minutely and thinks that maybe they're not all gonna die today.

'Well', Orlando says, 'don't you sound like Cosmo.'

Gerry laughs out loud at that and holds Joa's apple slices out to Eric who takes one.

'Cheers, mate, one more life goal over and done with', he says, actually sounding pleased. With a little more seriousness and a little less volume he adds, 'But for real now, after Katy, have you -' he makes a vague gesture, like that is supposed to be obscuring he is talking about Orlando's sex life in front of a quarter of JC's lower sixth form, 'been with another woman?'

'Or man', Eric adds. Seems to be something in Joa's apples that makes people suicidal.

Next to Joa, Luca Stenton's head shoots up, eyes wide and on Orlando. Orlando rolls his.

'Some people are bisexual, deal with it', he says to Luca before turning his scorn back on Gerry. 'Gerry, and I'm saying this with no love at all: Mind your own business.'

Gerry isn't in the least put off by that. In fact, his broad smile only wavers for a second when his fingers find Joa's apple box empty.

'Hey, I'm only worried for ya, mate. It's not like I'm setting up a profile for you on Tindr,' he raises his hands, anticipating Orlando's protest. 'Or Grindr. - Just asking.'

Before Orlando can say anything, a loud and booming 'Oi' echoes across the yard – Sean finally emerged from the main building with their tour guides, and he is waving them over. He seems slightly surprised by the speed that the kids, particularly the one's that sat close to the teachers' table, race towards him, Gerry in tow.

Orlando shakes his head and picks up two discarded crisps bags before he gets up as well.

'Hey mate,' Eric says, unfolding his legs from under the table, 'you haven't been with anyone since Katy, have you?'

Orlando points at another bag on the bench next to Eric.

'Oh, tons of people, Eric', he says, sarcasm dripping from his voice. 'In fact, after we return from here, I'll waylay yet another random biker at the BP station right away.'

Eric gets up and picks up the bag, delighted when he notices it's still half full.

'Didn't know you had a thing for leather, mate', he says. 'But hey, whatever floats your boat.'

'Fuck off', Orlando says, now that the kids are out of earshot.

'Do you want to have some numbers?' Eric asks, pushing a BBQ flavoured crisp between his lips. 

'What?'

'Telephone numbers', Eric repeats. 'For potential dates. I could help you out.'

Orlando drops the litter into the nearest waste basket and waits for Eric to follow.

'I'm not interested in dating anyone you have in your phone', he says with emphasis. 'I don't think I can stress enough how very much I am not interested in dating anyone you're related to. Or Viggo is related to.'

'You think I have Viggo's family in my contacts?'

'Well, don't you?'

Eric shrugs and empties the last crisp crumbs into his mouth.

'Yeah, I do. But I know other people, too. Fairly attractive people.'

Orlando rolls his eyes as they reach their kids, Gerry's and Sean's heads sticking out in the middle like buoys in a sea of navy blue school uniforms.

'No, thank you', he says, very firmly, before turning his attention to the upcoming educational highlight.

Of course, during the 90 minutes tour through the coal mining history, Orlando still receives seven new messages – five contain forwarded contact information, one a link to a [Cosmo article on relationship-phobia](http://www.cosmopolitan.com/sex-love/advice/a6451/things-that-freak-guys-out-about-dates/), one from Karl reminding him to show up for his birthday piss up on Friday - and has to confiscate Luca Stenton's phone because Luca can't pay attention to the tour if he is busy googling 'How do I find out if I'm bisexual' at the same time.

Orlando's life is giving him a headache. 

He _should_ find someone to fuck that away.

***

Karl's birthday was on Wednesday, but like the fucking responsible adult he is, he didn't invite his mates for a piss up in the middle of the week. He saves that for Friday. So, the 'Riddermark', an establishment that cannot quite decide whether to be a pub, an 80s disco or indeed an indoor go-cart track, has the questionable honour to host Karl's big birthday bash on June, 9th. These are nine things that happen over the course of said evening:

With the help of Beth Karl wins in an arm wrestling match against his buddy Dwayne who resembles a human tank. Technically, flashing one of the opponents with your breasts could be reason for disqualification or at least a rematch. Dwayne doesn't really insist on it, though.

Craig makes Bernard and several other people snort beer through their noses when he rehashes this morning's German lesson in lower sixth form. He grants that it was maybe a bit naive of him that his kids would appreciate a song about one of the biggest coal mining cities in Germany after their trip to York's Coal Mining Museum yesterday. Whilst one of Germany's greatest poets of the late 20th century in Craig's humble opinion, Herbert Grönemeyer's Ruhrpott accent is a little hard to understand. The collective beer snorting incident happens, when Craig tells his audience that three of the more enthusiastic lower sixers sang along, mistaking Grönemeyer's heartfelt 'Oho, Glück auf!' for 'Oho, Schluckauf!'. The song loses some of its working man pride impact if you accidentally turn the traditional coal miners well wishes into hickups.

Bernard recites a poem for Karl that he wrote for the occasion. This sounds rather sweet, but it should be added that Bernard wrote that poem only minutes before on a napkin on the Gents. Also, it is less of a poem and more of a very filthy limerick.

About three hours after Bernard's creative ejaculation on the gents, Orlando happens to be there for a piss and so happens to be a dark haired tall stranger. Said stranger is not staying anonymous to protect his privacy or to increase his mysteriousness. He has no name because Orlando really has better things to do than asking for someone's personal details when he fucks them in a stall of the Gents. Might have been Dick, which, yes, is fucking hilarious, considering.

Miranda patiently explains to Gerry that only because you _can_ technically get a condom over your head if you're only trying hard enough, it doesn't mean you should. Surprisingly to everyone present, it actually stops Gerry from trying.

Tom and Gerry get into a very heated argument about – well, no one knows exactly. Might have been Russian strippers. Might have been a bank robbery. Might have been the state of the housing market in London. 

The owner of the Riddermark seriously reconsiders his 'free chicken wing buffet' business plan after a horde of sports teachers annihilated it in under half an hour.

When it's gift giving time, Beth surprises not only Karl but also about half the people present with her present since it consists of a frightening amount of wallets she nicked from Karl's mates over the course of the evening.

While Sean does not believe in singing congratulatory songs whilst standing in a circle around the birthday boy , what he does believe, once the hour progressed, in is standing on top of one of the tables, hollering footie songs that grossly exaggerate Sheffied United's prowess on the green. Until Orlando drags him down again, that is.

***

On Saturday, June, 10th, Bernard wakes up with a hangover.

Craig wakes up with a hangover.

Sean wakes up with a hangover and a sore throat from singing.

Tom wakes up with a hangover.

Orlando wakes up with a hangover and a sore throat. Not from singing.

Gerry wakes up with a hangover.

Miranda wakes up with a hangover

Beth wakes up with a sore throat. See Orlando.

Karl wakes up and feels fucking fine because unlike all his mates, he can hold his fucking liquor for fuck's sake.

***

Joel Cartwright's parents are getting a divorce. They told Joel and Michelle last weekend. Michelle started sobbing and she still hasn't really stopped crying. Joel hasn't cried and he probably won't. _It's not your fault_ they said, and he knows that it isn't. _We still love you just as much_ they said and he knows that they do. _We just don't love each other anymore, not like husband and wife should_ they said and he knows that. If you don't love each other, you shouldn't stay married. He knows that. He still finds himself skipping practice and wandering around school grounds without a goal. He isn't crying, though, because he knows there is no reason to.

Next to the cricket pitch, in the grass, there are Mr Mortensen and Mr Bana. Mr Bana is lying on his back, eyes closed against the sun, and he has a dandelion leaf between his lips. Mr Mortensen is sitting next to him, tailor style, like he is meditating or something. His knee is touching Mr Bana's side, just lightly so, like it's an accident, when he could've just as well shifted to the left for an inch. He has his eyes closed as well, but he's talking and the dandelion leaf flutters when Mr Bana laughs quietly, shifts when he answers in the same subdued manner and pats Mr Mortensen's knee. 

Joel just stands there. He stands there and looks at them, and doesn't see them, not really, doesn't hear the words of their quiet conversation, just stands there. 

He still isn't crying, but now he doesn't know why.

***

Twelve sentences that were uttered in class on June, 12th:

1 – 'Yes, Mike, very abstractly speaking, when Grönemeyer says 'Wer wohnt schon in Düsseldorf?' he means 'Only pretentious arseholes support Arsenal'. Just don't write that in the next test.'

2 – 'Samuel, would you please stop picking your nose in my chemistry class?'

3 – 'La fille sur la mobilette, c'est Mr Bloom.'

4 – 'Brevity is the soul of wit. But this doesn't count as homework, Jay.'

5 – 'I'm very sure that Mr Bloom will object to you calling him a girl, Natasha.'

6 – 'Sam, are you digging for gold? Because I can assure you that unlike the 49ers in California, the subject you _should_ be focusing your attention on at the moment, you won't find any in the cavities of your face.'

7 – 'Shift your ass, or I will personally come up there and throw you of the ladder, Jonas!!'

8 – 'All you have to do is determine the x and y intercepts of the curve. The x intercepts are found by settling y equals 0 in the equation of the curve and solving for x. - How hard is that to understand?'

9 – 'If I find any of your boggers in the school's bible, I _will_ be slightly cross with you, Samuel.'

10 - 'Michelle, classifying mammals by cuteness is – while understandable, I mean have you _seen_ Al Capony? – not necessarily what we call scientifically sound.'

11 – 'Run, for fuck's sake, RUN! I will send Boris after you, you lazy lot!'

12 – 'Sam, I'm going to break your fingers. That will put an end to that nose picking, won't it?'

***

It's 4.55 p.m when Orlando looks up from his battered copy of Hegel out of the library's window. Outside, the weather is nice, and in the grass several clusters of pupils enjoy the sun. The scenery could be described as peaceful and Orlando is just about to look back down at his book, reflecting that Hegel wrote this whilst the battle of Jena and Auerstätt was raging in front of _his_ window, when hectic movement outside catches his attention.

There is – and Orlando has to blink twice before he believes it – a black ball of fur that is vaguely shaped like a miniature horse gallopping across the lawn, pupils left and right rolling out of its way. It surprises Orlando a little bit.

What doesn't surprise him is who is following close behind, long legs and obvious enthusiasm still not entirely a match for the wayward Shetland pony.

Gerry.

Orlando shakes his head and goes back to his book.

***

Situated even behind the cricket field, Wellesley Hall is the house furthest away from the sturdy Edwardian main building whilst (somewhat inconsequentially) looking most similar to it. According to the resident house teacher all the rooms are named after victories of the Duke of Wellington and have been named thus ever since the school was founded, and of course Mr Bean would never lie about something like that. Take the three common rooms for example, which are called Badajoz, Talavera and Waterloo, quite obviously named after the famous siege and battles that took place there. Wake Mr Bean in the middle of the night and even half asleep he can give you a very vivid account of each of the namesake skirmishes; ask most of the boarders staying in Wellesley Hall and they won't even know what you're talking about. If you want directions to Badajoz, Talavera, and Waterloo, you will have to call them what the pupils call them – Bada, Tala, and (somewhat unfortunately named) the Loo.

Bada is the smallest of the three common rooms it is reserved for upper sixers, stuffed with mismatching sofas. In ancient times, when smoking was still allowed within houses, the chamber (and it is little more than that) which is located in the attic was always filled with smoke, regardless of when you walked in. These days the only smoke in the room is possibly a result of an upper sixer forgetting his bread in the (illegal) toaster oven.

Tala is the most central of the three common rooms, right in the middle of the first floor and adjacent to the house's kitchen, and it has the biggest television. Unsurprisingly, it is the most frequented and usually the loudest one. Mr Bean claims it is a happy coincidence that sofas, carpets and curtains just happen to be in the same colours as the football club he religiously follows, though no one really believes him. It's not just because of that that Tala is the room you'd first associate with a sports pub; the rows and rows of mostly black and white frame photographs of former JC sports teams (football, cricket, but also rugby and rowing, and slightly surprisingly fencing) on the walls do the rest to complete the atmosphere.

It might be worth mentioning that generations of failed first dates between Wellesley Hall residents and boarders from other houses ended before they began due to the confusing phrase 'Let's meet in the Loo' (a somewhat strange first date location anywhere _outside_ Wellesley Hall). The Loo is, despite its questionable name, very well liked by the boarders. One of the reasons is its location in the almost sound-proof basement. While this means very little natural light comes into the room – the small windows near the ceiling even on sunny days hardly are enough to illuminate the room – it's the majority's opinion that it makes the place all the more cozy. Another reason is the massive oak table in the middle of it that is perfect for any kind of board games (and there are about a hundred of them in the large cupboard in the corner. A fair amount of Wellesley's boarders are very competitive about their gaming, and that is possibly to no little percentage their head teacher's fault.

Which means that if you should happen to find your way into the Loo on this Wednesday evening (way past curfew), you might find about ten pupils, third formers to upper sixers very boisterously encouraging one another to kill the [educated orc](https://images-cdn.fantasyflightgames.com/ffg_content/Dungeon-Fighter/DF-base/HB05-educatedorc.png) in an epic game of ['Dungeon Fighter'](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KLNby7TlNi4). It's also highly possibly that Mr Bean and Mr Urban are there as well, bouncing dice off of their noses and demanding blood.

Just a regular evening at Wellesley Hall, really.

***

[written by noalinnea]

Eric's eyes keep falling shut and his mind starts to quieten pleasantly, but then Viggo turns next to him with an impatient sigh. Eric adjusts his head on the pillow and closes his eyes again. The mattress dips when Viggo turns again. Eric tries to concentrate on his breathing- in- out- in- out- in- out… in…- out… Viggo’s knee hits his leg when he turns, again, and drowsily, Eric reaches out for him without opening his eyes. His fingers make contact with Viggo’s thigh.  
“What’s up?” he asks into his pillow.  
Viggo sighs. “I can’t sleep.”  
Eric would chuckle at his indignation if he wasn’t half-asleep.  
“Mmh”, manages to say. “Figures.” He takes a deep breath and turns onto his side, now facing Viggo. “Why not, though?”  
Viggo sighs again, now sounding impatient. “Christopher…” He doesn’t finish the sentence, and doesn’t have to. Eric slides his hand up Viggo’s side until it comes to rest on his shoulders. He squeezes it lightly.  
“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks quietly.  
Viggo huffs. “Not in bed, no. I’m not taking this bastard to bed with us.”  
Eric refrains from remarking that he already has, sort of, but considers it wiser to just ask: “Do you want to get up and talk about it?”  
He can feel Viggo shake his head rather than see it in the darkness surrounding them and hears him sigh again. “No.”  
Eric really wants to go back to sleep. “What do you want, then?” he murmurs, trying to keep his eyes open.  
“I don’t know”, Viggo says, now sounding so miserable that Eric opens his eyes again and leans forward to press a kiss against his forehead. He misses his target by a couple of centimeters and his lips land on Viggo’s jaw. For a moment Eric nuzzles against the stubble there, until Viggo turns his head. For a couple of moments they are simply sharing a breath, but then Viggo kisses him. When their lips meet, Eric realizes that he should probably be more awake for this, Viggo’s kiss is as impatient as he has sounded a second earlier. He slides one of his hands into Eric’s hair to pull him closer and his tongue into his mouth. Eric just surrenders and decides to go with the flow, if sleeping is off the agenda they might as well make most of it. He can feel Viggo get hard against his thigh when he answers the kiss, and when Viggo breathlessly asks him to touch him, he does. It’s a bit uncoordinated in the dark, and Eric feels as if it’s not his best performance ever, but Viggo doesn’t seem to care, and does half of the work himself by thrusting into Eric’s hand.  
Viggo makes the most amazing little sound when he comes, and Eric tries to store it away in a safe place in his mind while he drops a kiss onto Viggo’s nose. He knows that the arm Vigo uses as a pillow now is probably going to fall asleep along with Viggo in a moment and knows that in the morning he will regret not washing his sticky hand but just wiping it on the sheets, but he would much rather deal with a Viggo who has slept six hours than with one who hasn't. Tucked into his side and now breathing calmly, Viggo tightens his one armed embrace around Eric.  
“Thank you”, he whispers.  
Eric’s lips find his temple and he reaches out with the arm not trapped underneath Viggo’s head to pull the covers over them.  
“Sleep tight now”, he says quietly.  
Viggo just hums, and Eric can feel his lips curling into a smile against his shoulder.

***

'Hey Gerry.'

'Ahoy, West! I didn't know you had a phone!'

'What? You call me on it all the time. At the most ungodly hours.'

'Yeah, true. What I mean is that I didn't know you knew how to _call_ people.'

'Your responses make me want to hang up again.'

'No, don't. I'm really having a moment here.'

'Don't you want to be alone with your moment?'

'No, I'll gladly share it with you. I'm generous like that.'

'Sure. Just tell me when you're done.'

'Wow. Is that what you're like in bed as well?'

'What?'

'”Just tell me when you're done” - not the most considerate thing to say to someone you're fucking.'

'Two things, I'm not fucking you, and I'm not discussing this with you either.'

'Fair enough. My door is always open, though. What can I do for you?'

'I just wanted to know whether you know if we have that staff meeting tomorrow or on Monday?'

'Monday.'

'Okay, thank you.'

'Anytime.'

'Do people ever take you up on that, Gerry?'

'On what?'

'Do people ever come to you and unload their problems, bedroom or not, just because you say your door is open?'

'Are you kidding me? All the time.'

'Is all the time Scottish for never?'

'No, I mean it. Kids constantly stay behind in class to share shit with me. It's why I'm hardly ever in the staff room during breaks.'

'I thought that was because you had to clean up your bio lab.'

'The janitor does that.'

'I'm pretty sure he doesn't.'

'You sure, West?'

'100%.'

'Okay, then maybe I owe an apology to Kiele and Mir. - Anyway, my point is that kids come to me to unload fairly regularly.'

'About what?'

'Why are you so interested? You need to unload as well? You totally do, don't you, West.'

'No.'

'You do. Don't lie.'

'No. And I'm just asking because I'm surprised.'

'I'm generously ignoring how insulting that is in favour of being pleased that you shared your feelings, mate.'

'Yes, okay, whatever. - What do they share with you, the kids?'

'All kinds of stuff, I reckon. Yesterday, Claire Weintraub told me her hamster died, Michelle Cartwright burst into tears because her parents are getting divorced, and Rashida Perkin tried setting me up with her mother because she is lonely and desperate.'

'That's not very nice of you to say.'

'I didn't. Rashida did. She's very bitter for a second former. I told her that. I also told her that I don't date pupils' moms, she should take her business to Sean.'

'I'm sure all parties involved will appreciate that.'

'You sound bitter, West. I mean more bitter than usual. Did you want a shot at Rashida's mom?'

'No.'

'Cause I'm sure I can arrange that.'

'Don't.'

'Tell you what, I'll just give her your number and we'll see what happens, okay?'

'Under no circumstances is this okay.'

'Yeah, I'm getting a 'do it' from this, mate.'

***

[written by noalinnea]

"Eric?"

"Yes?" Eric lowers the newspaper and looks at Viggo.

"Have you ever wanted to pee on me?" 

Eric cocks his head to the side and wonders fleetingly if he really has heard what he thinks he has heard, before he decides to ask and make sure:

"What?"

"In bed, I mean."

"No."

Eric turns back to his newspaper.

"No?"

"Why?" 

Viggo shrugs. "Just asking. It's a thing, for some people, you know."

"What people?"

Viggo lifts his left foot from where it has been resting on the balconies’ banister and vaguely gestures at the school grounds with his toe. "People."

Eric hums, and the newspaper rustles when he turns a page.

"So you don't. Want to pee on me."

"No.” Eric looks back up at Viggo. “Have I ever given you the impression that I wanted to?"

"No. That's why I'm asking."

Eric just lifts an eyebrow.

"To make sure that you don't. I want you to be happy and satisfied."

"I am both as long as I don't have to pee on you."

Eric manages to read half a paragraph before Viggo asks:  
"Can I pee on you?"

"Do you want to?"

Viggo wriggles his toes and looks at them.

"Not particularly, no." He pauses and looks up at Eric.

"Would you let me pee on you?"

"I guess so. If your happiness depended on it", Eric says distractedly, his eyes already back on the news article.

"On your face?"  
"No." 

"Chest?" 

"Probably."

"You would let me do that?" Viggo asks with a mixture of incredulity and awe.

"If your happiness depended on it."  
"Wow." 

Eric smiles at Viggo and reaches for the sports pages. "You're welcome, mate."

***

'Now that's an odd sight', Sean comments as he puts his tray down. Everyone else – Eric, Orlando, Cate – don't have trays, just mugs of coffee, but they also don't have three different pieces of cake, so Sean doesn't regret his choices.

Sean's initial comment doesn't refer to that, though, and when Cate looks at him looking at Orlando, it makes Eric laugh, which in turn makes Orlando look up from his phone.

'What?' he demands.

Sean sits himself down opposite of him, next to Cate.

'You look -', he says and tilts his head, makes a show of regarding Orlando contemplatively whilst shoving the first forkful of cake into his mouth. 'Happy.'

Eric chuckles, Cate smiles, Orlando's frown darkens to levels of outer-space blackness.

'Happiness', he says in a tone of voice that is pretty much the opposite of this lovely sunny Friday afternoon in front of the 'Pony', 'is the lack of pain. Nothing more.'

Sean hums around his strawberry cake.

'Aye, you insulting me with Jeremy Bentham, that is more in character.'

Orlando glares at him again, then looks down at his phone once more while Sean is pulling his tray away, trying to get it out of Eric's reach. 

For a little while – actually exactly the timespan it takes Sean to eat his first piece of cake – they sit there in silence; Cate holding her face into the sun, Eric trying to disentangle himself from the pub's cat that is trying to climb onto his lap, and Orlando typing into his mobile like he was one of their pupils.

'Orlando, where are your manners, mate,' Sean then says, wiping cream from his lips with the back of his hand. 'It's like having tea with your sixth form self.'

'No one but Viggo had a mobile phone when Orlando was in sixth form', Eric points out, while Cate strokes the cat in his lap. 'You're really pretty old, Orlando.'

'Thank you', Orlando says, again without looking up. 'Also, fuck you.'

Sean starts eating his second piece of cake (peach), Eric puts on his aviator sunglasses, the cat purrs obscene loud in appreciation of Cate's fingers. Orlando smiles at his phone.

'You're right', says Cate to Sean. 'This is a little bit disconcerting.'

'What are you doing there?' Sean asks, now licking cream from his fingers after he abandoned the concept of cutlery after the first piece of cake. 

'Selling your first formers on eBay', Orlando replies without looking up. 'Leave me alone.'

'Are you arguing with people on the internet again?' Sean asks, very much ignoring him.

'Hopefully', Eric says, eyeing Sean's cake with obvious envy. 'That way he'll at least leave Viggo alone.'

The cat purrs even louder.

Simultaneously, Eric's and Sean's mobile phones' pling, announcing a new message. Both pull them out of their shirt / trouser pocket at the same time.

The text is from Orlando, and it contains nothing but a [gif, showing Stephen Colbert giving them the finger in slow motion](https://giphy.com/gifs/QGzPdYCcBbbZm).

'Right, that's it', Sean says, and takes a bite from his third piece of cake (rhubarb crumble). 'You're grounded.'

***

Despite the many activities that Jackson College offers over the weekends – and there are quite a few – a lot of boarders still fall back on something that isn't a regularly scheduled one. Gossiping. It doesn't matter whether the weather is good or bad, you'll always find groups of pupils sitting around, either in one of the common rooms or on JC's various lawns, sharing 'have-you-heard's. A lot of that gossip of course revolves around other pupils, but over the course of the third weekend in June, there are also eighteen things discussed about the teachers. That in itself shouldn't be surprising. What is, however, somewhat extraordinary is that out of these eighteen, half of them are actually true. Well, at least to some degree. Too bad for JC's pupils (and for Mrs Blanchett who likes to keep tap on these things for betting purposes) that no one knows for sure which they are.

1 - Mr Bloom has a new girl friend which is the reason why he is away from JC this weekend

2 - Mr Bean has a new lady friend (and yes, that was the term that was used, some of JC's gossipers are classy, okay?) and for once she isn't someone's mom. Well, at least not someone who goes to JC.

3 - Mr Butler has a girl friend, and he met her when he was at a monster truck event with Mr West.

4 - Mr West got evicted from his new flat for trying to cook meth there.

5 - There hasn't been a single theft reported in Palm House since Mrs Sanchez took over the job of head of house because her husband is a copper and his idea of detention is locking people up in the broom closet.

6 - Mr Urban made his rugby team sleep outside when their bus broke down during their last away-game. He said that it was June and anyone who had a problem with that could walk home if he wanted to.

7 - Mr Urban's dog isn't just the rugby team's official mascot, it is also its assistant manager and enforcer. Non-JC teams have been reported to avoid the changing rooms in fear of a roaming Rottweiler.

8 - Mr Bean may say that his football club is open for both boys and girls, but only girls ever apply. That supposedly has been going on for twelve years after, in 2005, one boy has been humiliated so bad by the team that he tried to castrate himself. (Okay, we all know that _that_ story isn't true.)

9 - Mr Bana and Mr Mortensen are actually legally wed.

10 - Mr Bana and Mr Mortensen are not actually legally wed because Mr Bana is married to his car. Which is totally possible in China or Japan or something, Robert Ryan looked it up on the internet.

11 - Mr Mortensen is an expert swordsman and actually owns three swords. (Curiously, no one believed Martin Rutherford when he claimed that even though it is true. The reason for the unified disbelief is the fact that Mr Bloom has not yet died from a sword-inflicted stab wound.)

12 - Mr West has two children from two different women.

13 - Mr Hardy moonlights as a bouncer at a semi-legal boxing establishment on the outskirts of Leeds.

14 - Mr Bean and Mrs Blanchett are going on summer holiday together.

15 - Mr Parker is going to spend his summer holiday in Berlin where his family has a massive house. Mr Monaghan is planning on joining him there for a week. Mr Parker doesn't know that yet.

16 - Mr Rhys-Davies is going to emigrate (or possibly 'go on holiday', the source wasn't fully sure) to Cuba to live there as a fisherman. 

17 - Upon hearing that, Mr Hill decided to retire as well and live on Cuba, too, under the pseudonym of Younes Hemmingway.

18 - Mr Bloom has a new boyfriend (the actual words that were used were 'Grindr fuckbuddy or something' by a pupil who'd like to remain anonymous because he doesn't want to be beheaded) which is the reason why he is away from JC this weekend.

***

Kiele returns from her field trip with her third form bio class around six. She loves her job, but looking for frogs with a bunch of hormonally challenged amateur scientists is an acquired taste, especially in this heat. The corridors of the house are quiet when she enters, as most of the kids should still be busy with their homework. From the kitchen comes constant chatter, though, and Kiele is not surprised by that. Different to most of the other boarding houses, Palm House has a large and open kitchen that is so inviting that most of the kids prefer it to the two common rooms and instead just hang out here. 

When Kiele leans against the frame of the two wing door, Monica Stedham and Nova Alban look up and grin at her. Nova has a textbook on the table in front of her, but she seems to be ignoring that just like Monica isn't actually using her sketchpad. They resume their conversation and the other kids seated at the table haven't even noticed Kiele's presence. Jaden and Felix Bingham are engrossed in peeling carrots (the former with some talent, the later in a display of utter hopelessness) while Julian Prang has specialized on eating them.

That destructive occupation is cut short by Gerry now, however. Wearing a checkered kitchen towel as a sort of apron – he stuffed it into the hem of his jeans – one of his hands now lands on Julian's shoulder who instantly freezes, stolen carrot five centimeters from his mouth. Without saying anything, Gerry holds a zucchini right under Julian's nose, and if it weren't for the peeler that Julian is (uselessly until now) already holding, Kiele would have thought this way yet another one of Gerry's attempts to explain the usage of condoms to horrified teenagers. 

As it is, and with a massive sigh, Julian takes the zucchini and starts peeling it, doing his part to add to the quite impressive array of vegetables already on the table. Gerry walks back to the kitchen counter and on the way there Tommy McFinney holds up his plate full of neatly sliced tomatoes, grinning broadly when Gerry gives him a thumbs up. 

Grease suddenly sizzles loudly, and Kiele looks to the stove where her husband is handling three pans at once. Matt's checkered towel – matching Gerry's – is slung over his shoulder and he wipes one hand on it before he turns the page of the cook book that is lying open on the counter. Both he and Gerry lean down over it for a moment, Gerry points at something and Matt nods, then Matt points at something and Gerry nods, before they separate again.

It's sort of funny, Kiele thinks. Matt is an absolute chatterbox and Kiele loves that about him even if sometimes, especially when she's had a morning with one first form lesson after the other, she wishes he would just shut up for five minutes. With Gerry, it doesn't take a morning of ADD pre-teens for Kiele to wish for silence, to be honest. And yet, when Gerry is at Palm House and he and Matt cook together, which is at least a couple of times every month, there is usually absolute silence between them. It's an unspoken agreement that Matt handles the meat and Gerry is in charge of everything else and usually they rope in whichever kids don't run fast enough (that isn't true, the opposite is, really, cooking with Matt and Gerry is oddly popular), and it's like nothing else needs to be talked about.

'You want something to drink, Kiele?'

Kiele is pulled out of her contemplation by Nova on her way to the fridge. The other occupants of the kitchen turn to look at her, smiles on their faces – Matt's being the broadest and Gerry's the most crooked due to the peeled cucumber stick he is holding between his teeth like a cigar.

'In a minute, yes,' Kiele replies, before pushing herself away from the doorframe. 'I'll just take a quick shower and then I'll join you all.'

***

Tuesdays are Eric's favourite days of the week and that's normally due to his theatre lessons with Gerry, exciting exotic food for lunch and Mondays, the days of doom, very far ahead. The 20th of June is not exactly different. His and Gerry's improvised sing-along was a raging success with most of Johnny's class, and they both took something from their cover of Scared Weird Little Guys's [”Come to Australia”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eNEeq5qGh8I) as well – Gerry a lot of useful advice which animals not to approach in Australia, and Eric the knowledge that Gerry doesn't only own a ukulele but knows how to play it, too. 

Subsequently, Eric is in a good mood, even though it is so hot that he has to change shirts twice over the day and still feels horribly sweating, and Viggo is away on a field trip and kind of expects Eric to fill in as a head of house. It is a position that Eric has never applied to and doesn't consider himself very suited for. Take the late afternoon for instance. 

Eric used the first opportunity he had to change into shorts and a t-shirt and headed over to the auto shop. Of course he never planned on washing the Falcon today, this kind of head is bad for the paint, but his baby needs its rims polished and personally, Eric thinks that is even better than meditating. Somewhat annoyingly, other people seek out the auto shop as well, and only partly because – given that it is situated in what previously were the old stables – it's pleasantly cool inside. 

Three boys and two girls of varying ages are there as well, and Eric is pretty certain they are all from Orlando's house. He may also have taught two of them at least in the last couple of years. It's not exactly easy to tell because they are all sweaty and have grease stains on their faces, somewhat disfiguring them. Also, they are all turned away from him, crouched around Orlando's motorbike.

Eric finishes polishing the rim he has been working on for the last quarter of an hour or so, then he wipes his dirty hands on the bottom of his shorts and squeezes through between two propped up cars to get to the fridge. It's a little colder in the back there even, so Eric opens himself a can of coke and leans against the unplastered stone wall. He drinks and watches Orlando's kids work.

If you look at it now, you wouldn't believe how bad a shape the BMW was in after Orlando's accident in the Easter holidays. Eric knows from past experience how long it takes to rebuild a car pretty much from scratch – though he has to admit that it took him longer than others to restore the Falcon in 1999 because he spent half the time crying bitterly for what happened to it. Orlando, of course, isn't like that. He knows his stuff and he and Eric have been known to bore the others to death with hour long discussions of technical details. But while the Falcon is Eric's baby, Orlando's BMW is a machine to be taken apart and put back together to maximize performance. And while no one touches Eric's car without a written invitation, Orlando lets kids work on his bike, a kind of work that all of them take very seriously indeed.

'All right, mate?'

Eric turns his attention from the fourth to sixth formers to Orlando, who opens the fridge and lets out a welcome gust of cold air. He's dressed in black slacks, black trainers and a black t-shirt and while for his standards that is pretty much the outfit of a stoner hippie, he still doesn't look like he even touched his own motorbike today.

'Yeah, good', Eric says, and as Orlando grabs himself a water and is about to close the fridge again, he adds, 'leave the door open for a bit.'

Orlando, of course, shuts the door and leans against it, eyeing Eric.

'You don't deal well with heat for an Aussie, do you?' he says. 'Hey, how come you burn so easily, too?'

Eric shrugs.

'The minute it's sunny, I find a spot and fall asleep there.'

'So, basically, you're a 6'2'' lizard?'

Eric takes another swig from his coke.

'Between the two of us, I'm not sure _I'm_ the one with the reputation of being cold blooded, mate.'

Orlando scrunches his brows together for the fraction of a second, then he chuckles.

'Fair enough', he says, uncharacteristically agreeably.

***

Mr and Mrs Needham come to Jackson College's Consultation evening for parents to hear hopefully nice things about their daughter Natasha and not absolutely horrible things about their son Jeremy.

When they leave again, they sit silently in the car even when they long reached the motorway. Which is kind of the same reaction they show every time they are on the receiving end of the full extent of Jackson College's staff.

Mr Butler, Natasha's favourite teacher, and Mr Needham spent their ten minutes allotted talking more about darts than Natasha's grades, and Mrs Needham was surprised that her husband didn't invite Mr Butler to a jar in the pub. Mr Bean, Natasha's house teacher, was – and Mr Needham is absolutely sure about this, even though his wife laughed it off – flirting with Mrs Needham throughout. Mrs Otto, Jeremy's bio teacher, was not flirting with Mr Needham, no matter what Mr Needham says. 

Both of them agree that after their conversation with Jeremy's head of house, they feel like _they_ have been given detention for being shitty parents and that they should consider themselves extremely lucky that their son turned out the way he did. Mr and Mrs Needham now understand why Jeremy is so fiercely proud to be in Mirkwood House.

***

[22/6/2017]

_Richard [12:34 p.m.]: How's life at Jackson College today? Somebody take off their clothes befor ebreakfast again?_

_Orlando [1:54 p.m.]: Don't get me started. It's like they're filming an episode of Hollyoaks here and no one bothered to tell me_

Orlando is a second too late to stop it from happening. He comes down the stairs in front of the arts building when he hears the collective 'ooh' of excitement. That, coming from a bunch of third formers is enough for him to quicken his step.

When they see him approach, the cluster of kids on the small patch of lawn instantly dissolves and everyone is trying their best to look a. somewhere else and b. innocent. That includes Roger Norton and Pia Wichewski, though the latter still has her fist raised and the former's face clearly shows where said fist landed five seconds ago.

'What's going on here?' Orlando asks. The question is twice redundant. He already knows the answer and also he doesn't want to know.

Pia opens her mouth and shuts it again when Orlando's eyes meet hers.

'If you were going to say that he started it,' Orlando warns, 'or that he deserved it, I won't even listen to the second half of your sentence and give you detention tomorrow night right away.'

The beauty of that would also be that Sean would have to deal with these idiots since he practically begged Orlando to switch Friday night duty with him. But Roger shakes his head.

'No, Mr Bloom', he says. He is clutching his hand over his nose. 'I told her to.'

Orlando closes his eyes, counts to three (he doesn't have time for ten), opens them again.

'Excuse me?'

'He asked me to', Pia says. 

'Well, kinda', Roger adds. 'Ow.'

Orlando looks back and forth between both of them, waiting.

'Explain.'

'Roger was, like, telling us about Mohamed Ali', Pia says. 'And he was saying he was, like, super rad at weaving and whatever. Mohamed Ali, I mean. And then he said that he was just as good. Roger.'

Orlando makes a mental note to talk to Pia's English teacher about her sub-par skills as a narrator and when Pia doesn't instantly continue, he makes an impatient hand gesture to urge her on.

'Ow', Roger says.

'And so I was like, no way you are, and he was like, I totally am, and I was like, shut up,' Pia continues and offers a shrug. 'And I was like, okay, if you can weave like Ali, then let me try and slap ya.'

Orlando pinches the bridge of his nose.

'An undertaking which you then proceeded to put into action, I take it?'

'You what?' Pia asks automatically, but then instantly raises both her hands like she expects a slap from Orlando now. 'Soz, Mr Bloom.'

'Yeah,' replies Roger and he sounds like his nose is already swollen under his hand. 

'And you totes weren't as fast as Ali', Pia says, actually sounding smug about it. 'Hit you right in the gob.'

'Ow,' Roger says for a third time and removes his hand from his nose.

Proof of just how well Pia hit him immediately starts dripping onto the grass. Roger's nose is bleeding copiously, now that the hand that sort of held it all in has been pulled away.

'Wow, sick,' someone from the crowd of innocent bystanders says. It earns him a glare from Orlando.

Roger, for his part, doesn't say anything. Orlando watches how he looks down at his own hand, red with blood, then looks up again at Orlando and further up at the sky, until his eyes go white. Orlando, too, rolls his eyes, but because he knows what is to come now. 

Roger faints, falling forward and right against Pia.

Orlando pinches the bridge of his nose again.

_Richard [3:06 p.m.]: Sorry about your shitty day. It's sunshine and unicorns here for a change._

_Orlando [3:55 p.m.]: Glad your existence today is a little less nauseating_

_Orlando [3:59 p.m.]: Speaking of little flashes of sun on the surface of a cold, dark sea_

_Orlando [4:00 p.m.]: Any chance you're free tomorrow? By happy accident my evening opened up_

Agitated voices come from the inside of the downstairs common room, 'the library', and they are too loud to be ignored entirely. Orlando can tell the difference between a heated argument and pupils trying to kill each other, so he makes himself the cup of tea he's been longing for two hours first. With his steaming mug, he makes his way downstairs, pushing the door to the common room open with his shoulder.

'Everything all right?' he asks, tea raised to his mouth.

Mara O'Riley, Emma Redding, and Victoria Shaw stop yelling at one another in order to look at him. They are sprawled across the leather couches, books and papers all over the place.

'Hi Mr Bloom', Victoria greets, chipper as always.

'We're fine', Emma says, grumpy as always.

'We're not fine,' Mara contradicts her and, with exaggerated drama, lets herself fall back onto the couch, 'our existence is meaningless.'

Victoria chuckles, Emma rolls her eyes.

'Well, sucks to be you', Orlando says.

Victoria laughs.

'We're discussing Sartre, Mr Bloom.'

Orlando quirks an eyebrow, and Emma nods while Mara grumbles, 

'No, you two nitwits are, _I_ already accepted I'm gonna get a D.'

It's utter bullshit, of course. All three are in Orlando's philosophy AS-level and while Mara always complains, the worst mark she's ever gotten was a B+. In class, Orlando doesn't have much patience for pupils being overly dramatic in their public pessimism, but this is recess.

'Hell is other people, hm, Mara,' he says anyway.

'Sorry?' Mara replies, too busy with her self-pity to follow.

'He's saying we're being utter -' Emma starts, then stumbles over self-censorship, and Orlando takes another sip from his tea while she goes through varying teacher-friendly curse words in her head. 

'Hellhounds?' Victoria provides helpfully.

'Yeah, okay,' Emma agrees. 'We're being hellhounds because we're refusing to enable your idiotic denial of your own potential, and our discussion forever reminds you that you need to actualize your self-image.'

'I hate you', Mara replies, very unconvincingly.

'Yeah, you could,' Victoria says and makes a dismissive gesture. 'Or you could just stop fucking bitching. - Soz, Mr Bloom.'

Orlando refrains from saying that he couldn't have phrased it better, but he also doesn't tell her to mind her tongue.

Victoria, who obviously expected just that, smiles broadly at Mara and after a quick look at Emma, who now started to paint her fingernails with a black Sharpie for some reason, she shrugs.

'We're terribly sorry that we're condemning you to be free.'

Mara had just stopped wearing her pout – the one that causes half of the boys in Orlando's AS-level to lose track of the conversation and the other half to roll their eyes – but now gasps in mock outrage.

'Free? Hello, who is forcing me to do course work with them right now?'

'We wouldn't,' Emma says without looking up from her Sharpie task, 'if you weren't the best in class.'

With a grin that is matching Mara's outrage for grandness, Victoria looks up at Orlando.

'Wouldn't you agree, Mr Bloom?'

Orlando sips from his cup and nods.

'With great power comes great responsibility.'

Emma snorts and Mara exchanges her mock fury for a shake of her head.

'We're talking existentialism here and you're quoting Spiderman at us? You're into comic books, Mr Bloom?'

'Wow, talk about pointlessness of existence', Emma says before Orlando confirms or denies. 'So nihilistic, Mr Bloom. So Sartre.'

Now Victoria sorts, but Mara now drops her act and looks at Orlando with narrowed eyes.

'That's wrong, though, isn't it?'

'What is?' Orlando asks back.

'That Sartre was a nihilist. That's not true, is it. You said so in class.'

'Yeah,' Victoria agrees and shuffles through the notes she just now pulled from under a cushion. 'I wrote it down somewhere, too.'

'I know he did', Emma says, now drawing on her thumbnail. 'I just don't get it.'

'Well,' says Mara, but then nothing follows.

Victoria continues to shuffle through her papers. Orlando sips from his tea. Mara pulls Victoria's assortment of loose sheets from her hands and tosses them next to Emma onto the coffee table between them. She looks back up at Orlando.

'How is saying that there is no purpose to existence not nihilistic, Mr Bloom?'

Mara scoots over on the three seater she is occupying on her own, taking her books and markers with her and creating a free seat, the invitation not spoken aloud but still clear.

Orlando has a shitload of stuff to do – lesson prep and annoying follow up conversations regarding yesterday's consultation evening and talking to Marsters about the leaking faucets in the second floor showers. And he has a bunch of stuff he'd _like_ to do before dinner – have a shower, catch up on the rumours about Morata transferring to United, message Richard maybe.

But Mara is still waiting, Victoria turns her head as well, and even Emma glances up from her fingers. 

Orlando puts his mug down on the coffee table as he sits down on the three seater, his elbows resting on his knees.

'First of all, there's a difference between nihilism, or in fact believing that life has no meaning derived from outside humanity, and what Sartre says, all right? What he means by saying 'life has no purpose' is that there is no _fixed_ purpose but only the meaning _we_ ourselves give it.'  
 _Richard [5:17 p.m.]: Sartre?_

_Richard [5:17 p.m.]: Nice!_

_Richard [5:19 p.m.]: Damn, you're making this really hard! I'm on background duty tomorrow and in Leeds. I do have a hotel room there and you'd be very welcome to join me, but I might have to jump out of bed at any point during the night and rush to an emergency delivery._

_Richard [6:17 p.m.]: Tuesday or Wednesday maybe?_

The day's heat is stuck in the conference room, and so is the five-headed planning committee. Despite the quick shower he had earlier, Orlando feels his deodorant failing. It doesn't improve his mood. Neither do Viggo or Craig and their arguing with Gina about the presentation schedule for project-oriented-learning week. They've been at it for ten minutes. The only reason why Orlando hasn't tried stabbing them with his pen is that he's actually quite fond of this pen. If this is how it is going to be for the next two weeks, he is going to nick a punchbag from Karl's gym. Normally for sports, he prefers a good fuck over mindless exercise. Who doesn't. Not when he needs to get rid off some of his pent up frustration, though. And he's not gonna let that pair of muppets ruin his orgasms, is he.

Sean elbows him in the side, and Orlando blinks as his brain closes ten tabs of porn it has opened up, most featuring Richard.

'What?'

'You're not gonna say anything to that?' Sean murmurs.

Orlando sets his face to his default annoyance. His gaze flicks to Viggo, Craig, and Gina who are hunched over a map of JC. Looking back at Sean, Orlando indicates with a short shake of his head, that he has no idea what this is about. Sean, in turn, arches his brows.

'Why are you so chilled out about this?' he asks. 'Did the school nurse shoot you up with tranquilizers?'

'I'm not “chilled out” about anything', Orlando hisses back, pretty much going on autopilot. 

Some of the irritation on Sean's face vanishes and he helps himself to another sticky hobnob that Craig brought with him. 

'You weren't listening, were you?'

Orlando looks over just as Gina, Craig, and Viggo start complimenting each other. That is never a good sign. Orlando still has no idea what is going on. But he isn't gonna let Sean in on that, now, is he?

'Fuck off.'

Sean crumbles most of his hobnob over his shirt.

'What were you thinking about?' He asks because he is an arsehole. 'If it wasn't this?'

Orlando glares. Sean munches on his hobnob. Orlando intensifies his glare. Sean smirks.

'Getting fucked up the ass,' Orlando says.

Sean pulls a face. He's so fucking straight, it's just too easy.

'Orlando,' he chides, like Orlando is 16 again.

Orlando shrugs.

'Don't ask, if you don't want to know the answer, mate.' He gestures at Craig, Viggo, and Gina who now got their notebooks out (well, in Viggo's case, his phone), comparing dates or something. ' And furthermore, does the outcome of the voting make me doubt democracy? Yes. But that doesn't mean I don't respect the result. If the majority of our school thinks that “love through the centuries” is the motto to go with for project oriented learning, then that's how it is.'

Sean looks at him skeptically, and for a second Orlando expects him to call him on still not knowing what the trio is on about. But then Sean helps himself to another hobnob.

'Yeah. You absolutely are on tranquilizers. Can I have some?'

'Why would you want tranquilizers?' Orlando asks back.

'For some of my ADD ridden first formers maybe.' Sean tilts his head contemplatively as he looks at Gina, Craig, and Viggo, but then says, 'Or for myself maybe. I could use a good night's sleep.'

He leans forward to reach for the plate of hobnobs again but Orlando pushes it out of his reach onto the middle of the table, smiling at Sean when Sean huffs.

'Mate, if you want to get knocked out,' Orlando says, 'All you gotta do is ask.'

And louder, to the trio, he adds, 'You think we're gonna finish this fucking schedule any time this century?'

_Orlando [10:47 p.m.]: Cheers for the invitation, but I'm not too keen on potentially time-sharing with newborns_

Orlando [10:49 p.m.]: Can't on Monday or Tuesday

Orlando [10:49 p.m.]: Which sucks 

Orlando [10:52 a.m.]: Wednesday? Yours?

Richard [12:35 a.m.]: Or you have to smuggle me into your place and we have quiet sex at night. 

Richard [12:38 a.m.]: I see the flaw of that plan, though.

Richard [12:39 a.m.]: Wednesday!

***

***

[written by noalinnea]

"What’s that?“  
Viggo blinks and peers down at the sheet in his hands.  
“That’s an official complaint”, Eric says.  
Viggo turns the sheet around and looks at the multicolored pie chart that is on it.  
“Oh”, he then just says, and looks back up at Eric. “This wasn’t a good week.”  
“No”, Eric says.  
“I know”, Viggo says, the sheet still in his hands, suspended in mid-air between them. He pulls his lower lip between his teeth. “I’m sorry.”  
Eric feels his expression soften.  
“Don’t be”, he says quietly. “You were busy.”  
Viggo looks back down at the chart, then back up at Eric. “How can I make it up to you?”  
“Viggo”, Eric takes a step towards him and reaches out to wrap his fingers around his arm. “It’s not that big a deal.”  
Viggo shakes his head, his eyes back on the chart again. “It is.”  
“It isn’t”, Eric insists, and tries to take the sheet out of Viggo’s hands, but Viggo won’t let go of it.  
“Did we really spend so little time together?” he asks, and his voice barely carries.  
“We did”, Eric says, feeling a stab of guilt. He should have known better. Trust Viggo to take this seriously. He pulls at the paper a little more decisively and, when Viggo lets go of it, puts it on the coffee table facedown.  
He turns back towards Viggo and lightly rests his hands on his shoulders. “Don’t worry about it now, okay? Come on, I made dinner.” He wraps one arm around Viggo’s shoulders and tries to steer him towards the kitchen, but Viggo won’t move.  
“I’m sorry”, he repeats, and Eric can feel his shoulders sagging at little under his arm.  
“No, I’m sorry, Vig, I didn’t mean to-“ Eric begins, but Viggo interrupts him.  
“I can’t”, he says, and is a little pale when he turns to look at Eric. “I… actually I just wanted to take an ibuprofen and lie down for a while. I’ve had a headache all day and it’s killing me.”  
For a moment, Eric feels like the biggest arse on the planet and before he has the chance to reply, Viggo continues with a faint smile: “Maybe we can have dinner together later, though, when I’m feeling better, if you want to wait?”  
Eric just shakes his head and then takes a step forwards and gently leans his forehead against Viggo’s. He cups his stubbly cheek in one palm and wraps the other hand around Viggo’s neck, pulling him closer.  
“Forget about all of this, yeah? It’s not that big a deal. A stupid joke, nothing more.”  
Viggo shakes his head. “No, but-“  
“No buts”, Eric says firmly, his fingers now stroking the nape of Viggo’s neck. “Let’s get you to bed. Do you want me to lie down with you for a while?”  
Viggo’s hands find Eric’s shoulders and he closes his eyes for a moment. Then he shakes his head ever so lightly. “I think I just need some rest.”  
“Okay.” Eric turns up his face and presses a soft kiss against Viggo’s forehead before he pulls him into an embrace. Behind his back, Viggo’s arms are tightening, and for a moment he lets Eric hold him.  
“I’ll tell you what, then”, Eric says into Viggo’s hair. “I’ll check on you in an hour or so, and if you’re feeling better, we can have dinner then. And if you’re not feeling better we’re just calling it a day.”  
Viggo hums against his shoulder. “Sounds perfect.”

***

When Eric wakes on Saturday morning, Viggo isn't there. That in itself wouldn't be that curious – while they both live in Arnor House, they have separate flats and quite frequently sleep apart for various reasons. This morning, it does surprise Eric a bit, however, because he is certain that he made sure to fall asleep pretty much on top of Viggo, kind of like a big stone used to weigh down tarpaulin that would otherwise be flapping in the breeze. Okay, this maybe isn't the best (or most romantic) simile in the history of the human language, but a. Eric teaches maths, not English lit, and b. he is only about 34% awake.

Point is, even if it's just 34% of his brain are currently not strongly arguing for going back to sleep, Eric notices Viggo's absence. He also notices that he has been rolled onto his back (and yes, the passive was correctly used there; Eric falls asleep in one position and wakes up in the same position 99% of the time. He isn't a migrating octopus like Viggo.). And instead of Viggo's head, there is other stuff on his chest, placed there like Viggo forgot the difference between Eric and the nightstand again. 

Eric tries to see what the stuff is, but the angle is weird and he can't properly focus on it. So he closes his eyes again and has another ten minute nap.

When he wakes from that – Viggo is still gone, the stuff on his chest is still there, and now there are pupils playing outside the window, so maybe it was longer than ten minutes – he shuffles up somewhat awkwardly, until he ends up half-propped up against the headboard. Then he inspects the small pile of stuff.

The first thing is a muffin, and whilst bran is not necessarily Eric's favourite, he eats it anyway, nearly poking his eye out with the miniature birthday candle that Viggo for some reason stuck into it. The second thing is a printout of a photo of him and Viggo that, judging by the angle, Viggo took with his phone, and judging by their t-shirts, was taken last night. On that photo, Eric is sound asleep, and Viggo is sticking his tongue out and crossing his eyes. He also used a red biro and Tipp-Ex to paint over half of the surface with circles and blots in various sizes. The same red biro was used to write onto an envelope that the muffin used as a make-shift plate and now has grease flecks all over it. In Viggo's big scrawl the message says '74.01% is outrageous! This afternoon, date, just the three of us, ok?'. 

When Eric opens the envelope, his muffin sticky fingers making a mess of it, he finds a voucher for the Falcon's favourite deluxe car wash inside.

***

Four things that happen on the afternoon of the fourth Sunday in June:

1 – Gina Torres, Paul Bettany, and Bernard Hill have an informal meeting of the English department in Bernard's garden. They don't have an agenda, other than drink a lot of wine and talk about Chaucer.

2 – Sean is late for meeting Cate. It's because he stops by the road since there is someone selling strawberries. In the sun, he leans against his motorbike and eats a small carton of them right there, buys a second one for Cate.

3 – Dominic finds himself on a walk through the countryside around Harrogate. Accompanied by three absolute strangers, Gerry, and [five Llamas](https://www.tripadvisor.co.uk/Attraction_Review-g187046-d1817834-Reviews-Nidderdale_Llamas-Harrogate_North_Yorkshire_England.html). It is a rather strange experience, even for Gerry's standards.

4 – Viggo and Eric spend most of the afternoon lying on the lawn behind Arnor House. Viggo reads Dante's Divina Commedia out loud, every once in a while interrupting himself by commenting on its style and themes. Pupils from his house and others walk past or sit with them for a while, maybe even an hour. But it's only Eric who listens for the entire time, head propped up on his arms and staring into the blue sky above them.

***

In the early morning hours a bus halts in front of JC and a row of zombielike creatures, dressed in JC jumpers and sweatpants mostly, sleepwalks inside. Even the bus driver looks beyond tired and if Christopher was awake yet (which he isn't), he would probably doubt that he was fit to drive such precious cargo all the way to Dover and then to the outskirts of Paris. 

Sean yawns a yawn that is big enough to threaten to swallow the whole bus and rubs a hand through his hair because he didn't really comb it to send his kids off. Orlando shakes his head at him and glares at Ryan Hutton who is subsequently pulling his Adidas trackies at least far up enough that not all of his underpants are showing. Sean turns to Cate who, of course, looks like she just stepped out of a magazine.

'I know we have this discussion every year', he says, in between yawns, 'but why do you have to leave so early?'

Cate smiles at him while she pushes Liv, who happens to have fallen asleep on her feet, up the stairs of the bus.

'Sean, someone wise once told me: Wake them early and have them do a lot of walking and they will sleep like little angels in the night.'

Orlando scoffs at that, because even af 5.20 a.m. he won't let even the slightest reference to religion, however out of context, slide.

'That wise person was me, wasn't it?' Sean says and leans his lower arm on Orlando's shoulder. Orlando growls under his breath but doesn't shrug it off, possibly because he reckons that the head of Wellesley Hall falling into a puddle would constitute a weird send off for the France Trip.

'Do me a favour', he says while Sean is using him as a walking (well, standing) stick, 'and keep an eye on Paul Brahms. He's a bit under the weather.'

Now it's Sean's turn to scoff.

'A bit under the weather? I thought you said he spent the whole night on the loo?'

Orlando rolls his eyes.

'Yeah, but he's better now, isn't he, or I wouldn't let him go with.'

There is motion by the front entrance of the bus and Bernard sticks his head out.

'I counted and enough of them are there', he says and waves at Cate. 'Come on, I plan on inviting you for croissants and espresso in the early afternoon.'

'Do me a favour,' Sean says, 'and keep an eye on Bernie. He is a bit... Bernie.'

Cate laughs loud enough for one of the half-asleep French learners in the bus to nearly fall out of his seat. She gives Sean a hug and nods at Orlando.

'Je promets', she says as she steps into the bus.

'Drive safe,' Orlando says, and to Sean, he adds, 'Would you mind not being all over me?'

'Write me a postcard,' Sean shouts loud enough that it probably means he doesn't just mean Cate but all the kids from his house. He doesn't remove his arm from Orlando's shoulder until the bus has driven through JC's gates. 

***

Paris, June, 27th 2017

To D. and J. Steele

Hiya Danny,

Mme Blanchett nous fait écrire des cartes postales et nous devons le faire en français, donc c'est ma carte postale pour vous et Jake. Je ne l'ai pas entièrement traduit par le traducteur google. Aujourd'hui, nous sommes allés à une foule d'anciens bâtiments à Paris. Paris est une ville sale et M. Hill est entré dans une merde de chien deux fois. Aussi, nous avons vu la tour Eiffel et elle semble rouillée et comme elle appartient à votre scrapyard. Susa a presque été entachée par un mec français sur un vélo tout à l'heure. Ils ont McDonalds ici.  
Au revoir,  
Liv  
(for anyone whose French isn't directly translated by google, this is what Liv typed into her phone and had translated : Mme Blanchett is making us write postcards and we have to do it in French, so this is my postcard to you and Jake. I totally didn't translate it with google translator. Today, we went to a bunch of old buildings in Paris. Paris is a filthy city and Mr Hill stepped in dog shit twice. Also, we saw the Eiffel tower and it looks rusty and like it belongs onto your scrapyard. Susa almost got run over by a French bloke on a bike just now. They have McDonalds' here. :))  
***  
Bernard is in Montmartre, using up his phone's free minutes by giving a sit rep to Orlando aka the great Inquisitor, when he happens to oversee two pupils doing what people have done in Paris for centuries. Now, personally he thinks that school uniforms are both a blessing and a curse. It is a blessing because with pupils wearing the same dark blue and dark green, the school crest even printed onto the back of the casual jumpers, you can identify your kids anywhere. It is a curse because with pupils wearing the same unmistakable outfit, you can identify them anywhere, even when you are on the streets of Paris, enjoying your two hours off and they are standing pressed up against a wall with a href=www.wikipedia.org/wiki/wall_of_love>a conveniently fitting art installment, snogging their faces off.  
'How far along is Gerry with fourth form's sex ed?' Bernard asks Orlando casually, interrupting Orlando's mild rant about Horrible Tuesday yesterday('If you like French food, then that is great, go to France, but for fuck's sake why do I have to eat snails? I think it's snails. I fucking hate International Food Day.').  
'Why?' Orlando asks back, his fear of escargot trumped by his terror of teen pregnancy. 'What is happening?'  
'Have you ever realized that school uniforms are both a curse and a blessing?' Bernard muses.  
'Bernard,' Orlando says. 'Focus. What is happening and whose dick is involved?'  
Bernard hums, tilts his head and regards the situation on the other side of the road, in front of the art installment.  
'No one's,' he concludes.  
'No one's?' Orlando asks back, sounding fractionally more relaxed.  
'Well, one,' Bernard corrects himself, still watching while he ambles over to a street stall selling pretzels. 'But it's on the sideline.'  
'On the sideline?' Orlando asks, now sounding annoyed rather than worried. 'For fuck's sake, it's three in the afternoon. Why are you drunk already?'  
'Oh, I'm not,' Bernard corrects him, fumbling with the assorted handful of Euros he found in his jacket pocket that technically are supposed to pay for the kids' ride on the tube.   
'Bernard!' Orlando growls back in Yorkshire.  
'Yes, Orlando?'   
'Tell me what is going on.'  
Bernard bites of a chunk of his pretzel and looks back to the graffiti dutifully. Liv Steele is still standing much too close to Alisha Faroud who is backed up against the wall of love and has a sort of dazed expression on her face as she licks her lips. Liv's expression has changed – at least Bernard suspects that it has since she snogged Alisha because he doubts that Alisha would've much enjoyed the snogging if Liv's face had looked as thunderous as it does now. Her wrath is directed at Christopher Thompson. Christopher's shiteating grin while looking at his two classmates abruptly changes to a look of surprise and then pain, when Liv turns around and knees him in the privates.  
'The penis in question just got some action,' Bernard reports around his pretzel.  
'What?!' Orlando shouts loud enough that Bernard supposes he would've heard him without the help of the phone as well.  
'Orlando,' Bernard says, contemplating. 'Can you tell me how many pounds four Euro twenty are? Because I think I just got overcharged for my pretzel.'  
***  
From: sean@sheffieldblades.co.uk   
Sent: Thursday, 28.6. 2017 4:18  
To: galadriel@gmail.com  
Subject: Old school

Dear Cate,

I just had a very depressing conversation with my third form this morning. We were discussing ways of communication throughout the ages, and I mentioned that you promised to write me a postcard. Half of my class stared at me with a mixture of incredulity and incomprehension and to not embarrass them completely, I rather elegantly gave an overview over the history of postcards. I ended by agreeing with them that today it is merely a fanciful way of saying hello and not a means for communicating information any longer because we have email for that. And once again I was met by incredulity and bloody pity even. Younes Alkali then raised his hand and informed me – in a manner that reminded me of me talking to your average D- pupil – that “no one but old geezers writes emails anymore, Mr B”. Cue snickers from the cheap seats of course.

I happened to mention this over lunch and was met with equally ludicrous responses and may have added a sorrowful word or two regarding the dying art of writing letters in general. Viggo (whilst typing into his phone, I might add, WHILE he was eating) claimed that he hadn't written a letter in years, something that Eric instantly unveiled as a blatant lie by pointing out that Viggo had in fact done just that last Saturday. Orlando thankfully shared my pain (in his case it was, as per usual, expressed through anger) and he entertained us for the rest of the meal by telling us exactly how many brilliant philosophical ideas have been written down in letters. The only person actually actively interested in that was Craig by the way who interrupted Orlando repeatedly by voicing his enthusiasm for love letters German poets wrote. Orlando unsurprisingly found that by far less interesting than his theoretical discourse. Gerry then wondered out loud whether sexting in the day of letters and postcards was still a thing, and as you can imagine, the conversation completely derailed from there.

Anyway, how are you? My sources tell me that Bernard is failing spectacularly as a chaperon and that the whole lot of you got stuck in the metro and Monica Porter got into a fight with a pickpocket. My sources are, of course, Orlando and Nicola Boeckman's Whatsapp history which she happened to check during my class, so I am not entirely sure how much of that is completely untrue and what is at least horribly exaggerated.

All is well in Yorkshire, the usual mini-crisis here and there aside.

Oh, yes, and last but not least, I wanted to tell you that Dom West wasn't the one responsible for the small fire in the basement of the main building. We're 99% sure now that it was a fifth former, due to some evidence discovered by Marsters. Thought the bookmaker in you would want to know that.

Have a great time in Paris and greetings to Bernie,

Sean

***

Friday night Viggo returns to Arnor House a lot later than his kids and that includes the Lower Sixers whose yearly ball he, Miranda, and Sean chaperoned. The evening went well; the kids had fun and there wasn't anything to do except for taking one bottle of Vodka from Marlon Rosenberg and do the chicken dance. So they just sat around and talked about the ups and downs as heads of house since Mir is taking over from John next year. There was a bit of wine and a lot of reminiscing on Sean's and Viggo's part and that only really ended when Mir left and turned off the light with Sean and Viggo still siting in the ballroom.

Arnor House lies in peaceful silence as Viggo climbs the stairs up to his rooms, and after a quick de-tour to the bathroom, he heads straight to bed. He falls asleep pretty much instantly and the evening down memory lane finds its continuation in his dreams, only that both Kafka and Disney seem to have co-written the script to them. Viggo is the first-time director to this movie, somewhat desperately trying to keep to the script of what actually happened while all his actors ignore him with increasing frequency. Out of the blue, Karl shows up, and Viggo is about to ask him why he is coming to a staff meeting on horseback and with a long blond wig of all things. Then something changes somehow, and Viggo wakes up.

He blinks his eyes open in the darkness, thinks 'I'm awake', but his brain isn't able to go further than that. There is someone in his bedroom, bumping against the cupboard on the way to the window. Viggo's eyes follow the shadow, black against the moonlit sky outside, and the window is pulled open, cool night air wafts inside. Viggo blinks slowly and can hear the clapping of his eyelashes.

'Sorry, didn't mean to wake you.' 

Eric turns around. He's wearing tracky bums and pulls his t-shirt over his head. 

Viggo feels the mattress dip as Eric kneels down on it, then slips under the covers. The alarm clock on the nightstand says 3:43 in green numbers. Eric's shoulders block it from view when he shifts onto his side Viggo closes his eyes when Eric's hand cups the back of his head and presses his lips against Viggo's forehead.

'Mmm.' Viggo shifts onto his back. 'Karl looks stupid with blond hair.'

It's relevant that Eric knows that.

Viggo's thoughts grow heavy when he feels Eric's arm on his stomach, his hand on his hip, Eric's nose against the crook of his neck.

'Christopher would look stupider bald,' Eric says.

He is right of course, Viggo thinks before he falls asleep again. Like he always is.

***  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


***

Now, Bernard knows that this is an unpopular opinion, but he _loves_ going on class trips. In fact, his wife repeatedly suggested to him a change of career – since he liked traveling with groups as much as he hated grading papers, why didn't he become a travel guide. Bernard thinks Marianne a smart woman, but he doubts that she has taken into consideration the fact that Bernard never reads up on the locations he visits. So when anyone asks him about any kind of useful information about, say, Paris, he just invents random facts if he doesn't happen to know the correct answer. He gets away with it with JC's pupils due to a fortunate combination of their gullibility and Bernard's status as wise old man, but he doubts that travel groups who actually pay him money would be that lenient.

So, instead of becoming the Indiana Jones of travel companions, Bernard just volunteers on every occasion when another chaperon is needed. Well, every occasion except for when the P.E. teachers go skying with the lower sixers. He accompanied them once in 2008 and was appalled to learn that he was supposed to be out in the snow, learning how to snowboard, instead of being allowed to sit next to the fireplace with a mug of mulled wine while their charges killed themselves outside.

He is all for learning on a class trip, though, as long as it doesn't involve snowboards. For instance, during this trip to Paris they are just returning from now, he learned that in 1993, for Aids Awareness Day, the Luxor Obelisk was covered in a giant pink condom and that the Place de la Concorde is the location of the offices of the President and the Council of the United Federation of Planets in the Star Trek novels.

His favourite bit from this trip, however, occurs on the bus trip home, somewhere between Dover and them being ridiculously stuck on the M1 just south of Leeds. The somewhat exasperated bus driver succumbed to the constant demands to turn the radio on and up, so they crawl along the motorway to the sound of 90s pop music. Some of the kids – then half the bus – start to sing along, and that is when Bernard learns that a. their kids are blissfully unaware of the concept of acronyms and b. they are not familiar with the spelling alphabet. Because there is a Bloodhound Gang song blasting over the speakers and half the bus sings along the wrong lyrics, well at least 1/4th of them. To their credit, they get the first and the last two right – it _is_ Foxtrot, Kilo, Charlie. But the second one is definitely _not_ “unicorn”, no matter how much Cate next to him insists that it should be. 

***

For the first day of project oriented learning week at Jackson College, Gina Torres has her charges re-write great romantic literature. Jaqueline McFarlane interprets the term 're-write' as 'shamelessly steal 98% from Jane Austen' and understands that the a dialogue about romance is best delivered by her favourite biology teacher and the scary chemistry teacher he, for some reason, calls his best mate. This is the result of her work:

_It's a truth universally acknowledged that every school in possession of a cynical chemistry teacher is in want of a project oriented learning week themed 'love throughout the centuries'._

However little known the feelings or views of such a man may be on Monday morning, this truth is so well fixed in the minds of the surrounding staff members, that he is considered as the rightful property of the school itself.

'My dear West,' said Mr Butler  to Mr West one day, 'have you heard that project oriented learning week has started at last?'

Mr West replied that he had not.

'But it has,' returned Mr Butler; 'for Eric has just been here, and he told me all about it.'

Mr West made no answer.

'Do not you want to know what the motto is?' cried Mr Butler impatiently.

'You want to tell me, and I have no objection to hearing it.'

This was invitation enough.

'Why, my dear, you must know, Eric says that this week is all about love. And he must know he has it from a young man of short temper from the North of England who also happens to teach whatshisface, philosophy here; he was so much delighted with the idea of project learning that he agreed with  Sean immediately; that he is to take charge of this week, and we are all his servants and are to be in the house until the end of next week.''

'What is his name?'

'Orlando. West, for heaven's sake, you've been working with him for a decade.'

'Is he married or single?'

'Oh! single, my dear, to be sure, though I do not know what that has got to do with anything! A single man of short temper. What a fine thing for our school!'

'How so? How can it affect the school?'

'My dear West,' replied Mr Butler, 'how can you be so tiresome! You must know that I am thinking of him doing all the work for us.'

'Is that his design in instigating this week?'

'Design! Nonsense, how can you talk so! But it is very likely that he may blow a fuse when he sees my project and take over, and therefore you must drag him here him as soon as you see him.'

'I see no occasion for that. You and the girls may go, or you may send them by themselves, which perhaps will be still better; for, as you are as useless as any of them. Orlando might like you the best of the party.'

'My dear, you flatter me. I certainly have had my share of annoying the shit out of Orlando, but I do not pretend to be any thing extraordinary now. When a man has fifteen almost grown up girls in his group, he ought to give over thinking of his own annoyability. Is that even a word, West?'

'In such cases, a man has not often much irksomeness to think of.'

'But, my dear, you must indeed go and see Orlando when he comes into the neighbourhood.'

'It is more than I engage for, I assure you.'

'But consider your mate; me. Only think what an opportunity it would be for me to have the whole week of because I am relieved of my duties.  Indeed you must go, for it will be impossible for me to visit him, if you do not.'

'You are over-scrupulous, surely. I dare say  Orlando will be very glad to see you; and I will send a few lines by you to assure him of my hearty consent to his taking over which ever he chooses of the projects; though I must throw in a good word for my own.'

'I desire you will do no such thing. Your project is not a bit worse than the others; and I am sure it is not half as batshit as Viggo's, nor half so good humoured as Dom's. But you are always giving your own stuff the preference.'

'Viggo and Dom have none of them much to recommend them,' replied Mr West; 'they are all silly and ignorant like other girls; but my project has something more of quickness.'

'West, how can you abuse your own colleagues in such way? You take delight in vexing me. You have no compassion on my poor nerves.'

'You mistake me, my dear. I have a high respect for your nerves. They are my old friends. I have heard you mention them with consideration these ten years at least.'

'Ah! you do not know what I suffer.'

***  
As far as the second day of project oriented learning week is concerned, it is a bit of a mixed bag in terms of success. If Bernard's group of young journalists, trusted with the task of documenting the proceedings of the week, were a little less like their teacher (which would mean a little less bumming about on JC's lawns), they would have had the chance to document or at least hear of the following occurrences. Whether or not they – or in fact any of them – actually are thematically relevant to this week's theme ('Love throughout the centuries') is neither here nor there:

Karl wakes Beth by going down on her. Now, you might argue that this is neither something project related nor, in fact, something the general public should even know about. However, Karl is really pretty good at it, Beth as a concept of privacy that somewhat differs of that of the majority of people, and also she has a very carrying voice.

Viggo wakes Eric by reading a poem to him. Eric is not really awake for the performance, but the cadence of Viggo's voice and his obvious enthusiasm cause him to hum in appreciation anyway. It's only about six hours later, during lunch, that he enquires why Viggo thought it fitting to read that to him in the first place. Paul, who happens to sit at the same table with them, cuts in and says some very moving and insightful things about the history of English literature and its greatest love poems. Eric very patiently listens while he is devouring about half a loaf of banana bread.

Aside from banana bread, the canteen serves fig salad, asparagus, avocado cream and basil fettucine. The selection seems rather eclectic, even for International Tuesday, but when Sean, somewhat disgustedly, remarks on it, the kitchen staff tell him to sod off, it's all _food of love_.

Robert Ryan obviously ate a little too much of it because he feels inspired to use the rest of his lunch break for a bit of a fumble with Maria Dayton in the bloom closet below the Western staircase. Maria thinks this a very neat idea. The two people who will probably appreciate this less are Kiele, Robert's head of house, and Victoria Shaw, who happens to be Robert's current girlfriend.

A very heated argument over the differences of Plato's and Aristotle's definitions of romantic love ensues between pupils from Orlando's A-level. Punches are thrown. Orlando appreciates the passion, the bloody noses not so much.

Gerry and his bunch of first and second formers visit Al Capony and Pony Soprano in their yard in a field excursion. In theory, the theme of Gerry's project is animal protection and the concept of love within the animal kingdom. It could be argued that not all of the twenty children who spend their morning braiding Al Capony's and Pony Soprano's manes fully grasp Gerry's pedagogical concept.

After returning from a well deserved pint at the Pony, Eric returns the favour and recites a poem for Viggo which he actually just gave birth to under the shower. It goes something like this:

_The wildlife in the local pond  
I'm actually rather fond  
Of that lot that's stuck in there  
So I guess it's only fair  
To wave hello to every toad  
From the shoreline, from the boat._

Viggo claps when Eric has finished – something of a less brilliant idea since he is washing his hands at the time – and praises Eric's use of rhyme scheme and enjambment. Eric bows which would be more dignified if he wasn't naked and standing the middle of the bathroom. However, then Viggo asks what's up with the subject of the poem, though. It transpires that Eric has spent the first two days of project oriented learning week working under the assumption that the theme was 'The pond and its inhabitants'.

***

Around noon on the third day of project oriented learning week Eric holds an emergency meeting with his group. It consists of four boys and fifteen girls and all of them gather around him willingly, the noise from several kids outside the common room coming through the windows.

'Right, guys,' Eric addresses them and scratches the back of his head as he surveys the room that is an absolute mess at the moment. 'Bit of a problem, there.'

'What?' asks one of the boys, the one with the curly hair. 'Did we run out of paint?'

'Dickhead, don't you have eyes?' one of the girls asks him, shoves his shoulder and points at the row of half full paint cans. Eric looks at the pink handprint that is covering her right breast that does bear a certain resemblance to curly hair's paw and decides to let the insult go.

'No, you have enough paint,' he reassures them. 'It's something else. Sources informed me -'

'When you say “sources”, you mean Mr M, right?' asks a girl with hair that matches the bold band of blue on the wall.

'Of course he does,' says handprint-girl.

'Yes, I do,' confirms Eric. 'But can you shut up for a moment? As I've said, this is sort of an emergency.'

The kids nod.

'Right,' says Eric. 'So Viggo informed me that there was a bit of a mix up of sorts.'

'Meaning you didn't pay attention?' interrupts a girl wearing just one sock.

'Don't be rude,' says handprint-girl,

'What? It's not rude if it's true,' says a boy that Eric thinks is in his AS-level. 'That's what Mr Bloom always says.'

'That's bull,' says the girl with the Iron Maiden t-shirt. 'Like, if Mika says that Noel is a dickhead, then that's true but it's still rude.'

'Oi,' protests curly hair Noel.

'What, Mika can say it and Liv can't?' protests a lanky girl who looks like a beanpole right back. 

'Now that is fucking rude,' says handprint-girl. Eric assumes that she is called Mika.

'Shut up!' Eric bellows with his cricket coach voice.

The kids shut up.

'Soz, Coach,' says Joshua Jones.

'You were saying?' asks the blue haired one.

Eric opens his mouth and then closes it again.

'Damn it, I forgot,' he mutters and glares at them. Somehow his glares are by far less effective than Orlando's or even Christopher's.

'Some sort of emergency?' says a tiny girl who is still holding her paintbrush that is sort of dropping violet paint onto the floor.

Eric nods.

'Yes, of course. Thank you -' he stops, not knowing the tiny girl's name, gestures at her.

'Janet,' the tiny girl provides. The paint keeps dripping.

'Yes, thank you, Janice,' Eric says to her, then addresses the group again. 'We have to come up with a bit of a battle plan. Because I only just learned that this week has a motto.'

He stops for dramatic purposes, but the kids just look at him expectantly.

'Yeah, so?' asks Iron Maiden Girl (Liv?).

'Yeah, so,' Eric says, 'come Friday we have to present our projects results. And I kinda need you all to come up with an explanation.'

'An explanation for what, sir?' asks Janice.

Eric barely keeps himself from rolling his eyes. He makes a grand gesture at the common room that they are standing in – the biggest one in the main building and now half-way through being freshly renovated. The left wall is already completely pink, the right one is mostly blue and the large one in the back is blue to at least 1/3rd.

'Don't you think we did a good job so far?' asks Noel, sounding more offended by this than by the dickhead comment earlier.

'Shut up, it looks brill,' says Joshua and shoves him.

'Yes, it looks lovely,' says Eric, somewhat distractedly. 'That's not what I mean. What I mean is that you all need to come up with an explanation why we spent five days painting a common room when the motto of the week is -' he makes a vague gesture.

'”Love throughout the centuries”,' provides a girl with paint on the frame of her crooked glasses.

'”Love throughout the centuries”, yes. So, any ideas?'

The kids are silent. Instead of looking at him, though, they exchange looks between one another.

'What do you mean?' asks Janice.

This time Eric does roll his eyes.

'We need to find a way to tie this whole painting in with the project's motto,' he explains patiently.

Another round of exchanging meaningful looks.

'Mr Bana, weren't you at the preliminary meetings for our group?'

Eric looks at her without comprehension.

'He wasn't,' says Joshua.

'I believe he said he was “sick”?' says the girl with the crooked glasses. She makes air-quotes around the last word.

'Don't be rude,' Eric says. Beanpole-girl snickers. 

'Mr Bana,' says Noel. 'Don't you kinda see what we did here? Like, the colours, yeah?'

Obligingly, Eric looks around the room again.

'Yes, they look lovely,' he says.

The kids wait. Eric waits.

'For fuck's sake,' says Liv aka Iron Maiden girl. 'It's the bi pride flag, Mr Bana. We painted the room in the colours of the bi pride flag. For awareness and shit.'

'You did?' asks Eric.

'We did?' asks handprint-Mika.

Liv pulls a face at her.

'Yeah, what did you think we chose these colours for?'

Mika absently rubs her breast and looks around the room.

'I dunno, cause it looks pretty?'

Liv rolls her eyes.

'You're such a brainless doll.'

'Oi!' says Mika, not as good as receiving compliments as she is at dishing them out apparently.

'This is the bi pride flag?' Eric asks and rubs the back of his head.

'Yes, Mr Bana,' says beanpole-girl with an encouraging nod. 'Pink is for homosexuality, blue for heterosexuality, and violet is, like, the mix of them and it's for being bi.'

'Fascinating,' says Eric, once again looking at the walls, then at the paint-smeared kids. He smiles. 'Well, that's great. Carry on, then.'

Most of the kids go back to their tasks which apparently consist to 50% getting paint on the walls and to 50% to get paint on themselves. Only Joshua remains where he is and looks at Eric thoughtfully.

'Coach?' he asks. 'If you only just leaned what the actual theme was, what did you think it was before?'

Eric wipes a droplet of violet paint from his shoe.

'”The pond and its inhabitants”,' he replies distractedly before he puts his foot down again and turns towards the door. 'Right, if you lot need anything, I'll be in the staff room, having a coffee, all right?'

***

[written with noalinnea]

Project oriented learning week goes very much like Aristotle's theory of dramatic structure. In case you didn't pay attention in Bernard's English Lit lessons, Aristotle says that in a five act drama the fourth must have a moment of final suspense, a moment where everything that can go wrong seems to go wrong and everyone is frustrated. Day four of the week, Thursday, is very much like that. Here are just four of the myriad of disappointments that pupils and staff members of JC have to face during that horrible day:

1 – The kids in Johnny's drama club complain very loudly over game night in the basement of Wellesley Manor that they didn't get any chance to act at all today. Johnny deemed them all unworthy and played all the roles himself, using a broomstick as the stand-in for the princess's love interest.

Karl tells them to stop whining and throw the dice already if they want to find out if the Axis powers or the Allies are going to win. At least the broomstick is called Orpheus, and so the whole project is much closer to the actual motto than that of Gerry's group is (which seems to be grooming ponies)

2 – Mikael Burdin and Jason Franks have a lover's spat in the gym's loo. It's nothing too bad, really, Jay just doesn't understand why Mikael suddenly won't jerk him off in the changing rooms anymore.

And isn't the fact that they are arguing about this a brilliant representation of the week's motto?

3 – Different to the common perception, Orlando is not in a good mood a day after he had amazing sex twice. Quite the contrary. His body and his brain keep telling him that orgasms are great – case in point: last night – and demand more. Subsequently, he is not good company. Everyone can attest to that.

Richard, on the other hand, is. There's an relaxed air to him all morning, and he smiles amicably at both his co-workers as well as the parents and even at the odd unsuspecting neonate. At 11:30 a.m. he is asked by nurse Penelope to 'go find someplace else to be and stop whistling, for heaven's sake, the babies are getting twitchy'. Richard spends the rest of the day grinning at his paperwork.

4 – Even though he searches all day, Eric can't find a word that rhymes with purple to finish his shower poem for the day. Stupid bi flag. Why doesn't it have red in it instead of purple? Eric has loads of words to rhyme with red. Like bed for instance. How's that for “Love throughout the centuries”?

Later in bed, he asks Viggo who furrows his brow and comes up with 'snircle' and 'curple'. Eric claims he made the second one up, but Viggo maintains that it's a Scottish word for some part of a horse and he's just forgotten which. Eric shakes his head and retrieves his phone from the floor to call Gerry. He's siding with Viggo, the bastard, and Viggo smirks at him when Eric hangs up, leans towards him to steal a kiss and then comfortably settles down next to him, only to wake him up two hours later and confess that he made up 'snircle'. Eric tells him to shut up and sleep, but without snircling into his ear, and Viggo laughs quietly and only snircles a little after he's gone back to sleep.

***

Sean looks down into the mug that Orlando hands him with something like disdain. Orlando pointedly ignores it and sits down at the kitchen table opposite of Sean again. The usual early evening audible backdrop comes in from the open door of Mirkwood House's common kitchen. Sean gets a satchel of sugar from his shirt pocket and rips it open.

'Someone ever told you that it's impolite to have your guests bring their own sugar?' he asks as he pours said sugar into his mug.

Orlando, leaned back on his chair, legs crossed at the ankles, peers at him over the rim of his own mug.

'If you keep complaining, you're gonna have to bring your own tea bags as well.'

Sean gets up in order to fetch himself a spoon from the drawer which Orlando didn't provide.

'Might be the better choice. What I don't get is how you can drink that shit,' he gestures at the glass of Sainsbury's Rich Roast on the counter, 'when you have a decent coffee maker in your flat.'

Orlando makes an effort to slurp from his mug, so that Sean automatically turns around to give him a stern look. Orlando just returns it.

'I have that fancy thing because you gave it to me,' he says and before Sean can respond, he adds, 'And don't tell me again how expensive it was. I know you got it off Gumtree. Karl told me.'

Sean doesn't bother denying it, also he is a bit preoccupied searching the kitchen cabinet for a biscuit to go with his tea.

'I won't get you anything at all at next time at this rate.'

'Yeah, yeah,' Orlando replies, slurping.

Search completed successfully, Sean sits down at the kitchen table again.

'Why aren't we in your flat?' he asks. 'These chairs are quite uncomfortable.'

'Why are you here in the first place?' Orlando asks back. 'Except to complain, I mean?'

'Well, you – '

Sean undoubtedly witty reply is cut short by two first form girls, looking exactly the same, edging through the door. They don't interrupt but considering the kind of words Sean was about to describe Orlando, he falls silent in their presence anyway. 

'Hi Mr Bean,' both of them say at the same time, and Sean raises his mug in greeting.

'Hi yourself. You had a good time in the last week?'

Both smile identical broad smiles and nod in sync.

'Mr Bettany made fashion with us,' says the left one and the right one zips open her hoodie to reveal a pink t-shirt that has slightly crooked hand-writing on it, reading “We accept the love we think we deserve”.

Sean smiles broadly and nods.

'That looks very nice.'

'Thank you, Mr Bean,' says one.

'What did you do this week?' asks the other.

'A historical reenactment of the Trojan war,' answers Sean.

Neither of the girls look like they know what he is talking about but nod earnestly.

'That sounds very nice,' says one.

'Mr Bloom, can we ask you something?' says the other.

Not really trying to hide his smile, Sean sips from his tea and looks back at Orlando.

Orlando has put his mug down on the table, his hand still curled around it. His eyes flicker to the clock mounted on the wall that shows the time as 6.45 p.m.

'Yeah, all right,' he says.

Both girls beam at him, then turn on their heels and scuttle off.

Amused, Sean bites a chunk off his biscuit.

'What was that about?'

'They wanna watch “”Horrible Histories”, it starts in fifteen minutes.'

'”We accept the love we think we deserve”?' Sean quotes the girl's t-shirt. 'Now, that's an interesting choice for a fashion item, don't you think?'

'You mean wearing your heart on your sleeve got replaced by wearing it on your chest?'

Sean chuckles but shakes his head.

'Nah, it's just easier said than done, isn't it? Not your average “Love is everywhere” slogan that you usually find on t-shirts.'

Orlando sips from his coffee, regards Sean critically.

'Did you just quote “Caught in the Act” at me?'

With the fingers that he just licked clean of crumbs, Sean gives Orlando a two-fingered salute.

'The week was okay, don't you think?' Orlando asks after a moment, ignoring the insult.

'It was,' Sean confirms.

They drink in silence, and Sean watches how Orlando brings his mug up to his lips thrice even though it is already empty and his eyes keep glancing at the clock on the wall.

Sean takes the mug from him and puts it in the dishwasher, and while he is there, he helps himself to another biscuit and puts the kettle on again. The water is almost boiling when again, someone appears in the doorway, and this time Sean knows who it is – blue hair, seventeen; Emma Redding.

'Hiya, Mr Bean,' she says but looks at Orlando, her expression somewhere between apprehensive and sullen.

'Went all right?' Orlando asks.

Emma lifts one shoulder, purses her lips.

'Yeah, I guess. She wants to see me again next week, though.'

Orlando nods.

'Good,'

Emma stands there, her shoulder still somewhat raised. Orlando looks at her. Sean looks between the both of them. The kettle boils.

'Good night, Emma.' Orlando prompts, the minimal arching of his brows acting as a send off.

'Bye Mr Bean,' says Emma as she turns around and walks off.

Sean pours water into his mug, then leans against the kitchen counter.

'I sent her to counseling because of Wednesday, and she was there again just now,' Orlando explains after a moment.

'Peace restored for the time being?'

'You know as much as I do, mate.'

Orlando frowns at the crumbs that Sean's biscuit left on the table, then abruptly gets up and his facial expression is back to neutral.

'Are you taking this with?' he asks and points at Sean's mug as he walks towards the door. '”Emmerdale” is on in a few.'

***

Now, most of the time Karl thinks that Orlando is a persnickety dick. Like, Karl is pretty sure that it's Orlando's fault that he, Karl, has to work on July, 8th, the last Saturday before the summer holidays. Instead of doing something fun and not a complete waste of time, Karl spends most of his Saturday keeping Gerry's kids in line since he, Karl is obviously the only fucking adult in this freak show. So it falls to him to make sure the stupid pony doesn't get loose that Gerry and the girls brought onto school grounds for fuck knows what reason. Also, he is forced to look at the project presentations of at least five other groups, and the only fun thing about that is when Sean gets clobbered in the head with a giant spear held by a second former with terrible eye-hand-coordination. Other than that, it is pretty much the opposite of Karl's idea of a perfect Saturday, and Karl is sure that that is down to Orlando.

Doesn't mean Karl isn't mates with him. And here is why:

Karl has just gotten out of the shower when his doorbell rings. 

'Hiya,' says Orlando when Karl opens.

'What do you want?' Karl asks, poking his ear to get the water that's stuck in there out.

Orlando rolls his eyes, then uses them to look pointedly down at the cardboard box he is carrying. Karl peers at it with some skepticism. That dissolves, however, when he sees the Polish inscription of “Żywiec“ on it.

'Is that -?' he asks and feels his face lighting up.

Orlando, because he is a dick, rolls his eyes again.

'Of course it is. I told you I ordered it ages ago, didn't I? And I got travel guides to Poland as well.'

Karl takes the box from Orlando's hands and leaves his bag with books to him. He rips the box open as he walks towards the living room of his flat, expecting Orlando to follow.

'Yeah, yeah, whatever. I'm only interested in the beer, mate.'

***  
[written by noalinnea]

Eric is about half way through his shower routine when there is some sort of rustling. Might be a knock, actually, if there was a door there. Eric feels a smile tugging at his lips.  
‘Yes?’ he asks, voice not fully awake yet.  
‘Are you decent?’ Viggo asks.  
Eric squeezes a bit of shampoo into his hand. ‘I’m in the shower.’  
‘I know,’ Viggo says before he pulls at the shower curtain a little so that he can peer inside. ‘You’re late,’ he informs Eric, and cocking his head to the side, gives him a once over.  
‘I know,’ Eric says and smiles in reaction to the grin that has appeared on Viggo’s face.  
‘You weren’t there when I woke up,’ Viggo says and picks up the pile of Eric’s clothes that he has put on the toilet lid so that he can sit down.  
Eric sighs and turns into the spray to wash off the shampoo. ‘I know,’ he says, raising his voice so that Viggo can hear him. ‘I fell asleep on the couch while grading that test.’  
Viggo pulls his lower lip between his teeth but doesn’t say anything. Then he shrugs, and a fresh smile is tugging at his lips.  
‘You missed out on your poem.’  
Eric chuckles. ‘We can’t have that now, can we?’  
Viggo shakes his head, his smile broadening.  
Eric turns off the water. ‘Toss me the towel?’ he asks and Viggo does.  
When Eric has dried his face he asks: ‘Ready?’  
Eric hums. ‘Do you want me to get dressed first, though?’  
Viggo shakes his head, grinning. ‘No. The setting is perfect, actually.’  
Eric nods, now grinning, too. ‘Go on, then.’  
Viggo looks solemn, as always when he is reciting poems, and searches Eric’s eyes before he starts:  
‘Like an apple tree among the trees of the forest,  
So is my beloved among the young men.  
In his shade I took great delight and sat down,  
And his fruit was sweet to my taste.  
He has brought me to his banquet hall,  
And his banner over me is love.  
Sustain me with raisin cakes,  
Refresh me with apples,  
Because I am lovesick.’*  
Eric contemplates his words for a moment while he towels himself dry. ‘This is a weird one,’ he then says, leaning towards Viggo and taking his boxers off the pile on his lap.  
Viggo nods. ‘And weirdly dirty. I mean- his fruit was sweet to my taste?’  
Eric grins at him when he pulls up his boxers. ‘I thought that was the good part, actually.’  
Viggo shakes his head. ‘Of course you did.’ He tosses Eric his shirt. ‘So, it doesn’t make the top three, then?’  
Eric pulls the shirt over his head. ‘No, I don’t think so.’ He reaches for the jeans that Viggo holds out for him.  
‘I liked the Neruda, so dramatic, and then this Austrian guy, what’s his name again?’  
‘Fried,’ Viggo replies. ‘Erich Fried.’  
‘Right.’ Eric pulls up the jeans and buttons them up. ‘Oh, but I liked Romeo and Juliet the best,’ he then says, smiling at Viggo.  
Viggo laughs. ‘Because you got to be Juliet and up on the balcony why I was down there in the pouring rain, trying to serenade you properly.’  
Eric chuckles and reaches for Viggo’s hand to pull him up and into his arms. Viggo complies readily and leans in for a kiss when their chests and hips are touching.  
‘I brought you some toast,’ he then says, gently touching Eric’s forehead with his.  
Eric tightens his embrace for a moment. ‘O Romeo, Romeo! Wherefore art thou Romeo?’ he murmurs against Viggo’s lips, causing him to laugh into his mouth.

***

This is what nine people at JC are doing at 9:09 a.m. on July, 9th:

1 – Orlando wakes up with a massive hangover, grabs himself a Paracetamol from the nightstand without opening his eyes and swears to himself that he will never drink Polish beer again.

2 – Karl wakes up because Boris is licking his face and demands being taken out for walkies. Karl ignores him as well as his annoying phone.

3 – Sean is on his second cup of tea and indulging in his dirty pleasure which is reading Gerry's week's worth of 'The Sun'.

4 – Craig is chatting to his mother via Skype who is trying to convince him to spend at least half of his summer holidays in Wuppertal. Craig kinda enjoys riding the suspension monorail and likes spending time with his family. He is still gonna go to Grand Canary for four weeks.

5 – West shows up at Gerry's doorstep to drag him to the Yorkshire Air Museum. Gerry, of course, is absolutely game and ushers West out the door, brushing his teeth in West's car.

6 – Miranda has John over for breakfast which they have been doing for a while on Sundays now. John is enjoying the shrimps and dishing out good advice to his successor.

7 – Kiele is getting cake from the bakery in the village because it's her and Matt's wedding anniversary. Matt, in the meantime, is baking cake because it's his and Kiele's wedding anniversary. They may have coordinated this a little bit better.

8 – Beth is on mile 2 of her Sunday morning run and writing ridiculing text messages to Karl.

9 – Eric and Viggo have sex. One of them is even fully awake for it.

***

On Monday, the school photographer is there. He has a hard job. Not so much because of the teenagers with braces he is supposed to capture favourably but because of certain members of staff who either don't want to be on the picture at all (some claim because they are vampires) or behave like first formers on a sugar high. It's when someone gets rugbytackled to the ground that the photographer thinks about changing not so much profession but subjects. He heard newborns in hospitals are a much easier target.

***

Gerry nearly stumbles over Eric when he rounds the corner. In all fairness, it's not Gerry's fault. Okay, fine, he has a history of running people over and there were one or incidents when people (West) called him a. a battering ram and b. a wrecking ball because he happened to be a bit too enthusiastic (not that there really is such a thing) with his greetings. In this case, however, it is entirely Eric's fault for sitting on the ground behind the cricket pitch like a car that broke down whose owner forgot to put out the advance warning triangle.

'Whoa, mate,' says Gerry, grinding to a halt or at least trying to. He ends up with his feet on either side of Eric's outstretched legs with Eric's cricket bat precariously close to his crotch.

'Hi Gerry,' Eric replies, like it's the most normal thing in the world to sit around on the ground like that. 'How's things?'

'Can't complain,' Gerry says on autopilot. 'And yourself? No, wait. What are you doing here?'

Eric looks up at him again, the bat now aimed away from Gerry's crown jewels.

'Waiting.'

Gerry frowns and walks backwards a little. He nearly stumbles over Eric's batting pads.

'Lying in wait?' he sort-of repeats. 'For whom are you lying in wait? Are you going to batter Christopher to death?'

'Nah, not three days before the summer holidays, mate.'

Gerry nods.

'Good point. Viggo, then?'

Eric arches an eyebrow.

'Am I going to batter Viggo to death? Who'd go to Greece with me then?'

Gerry shrugs, lifts his foot over Eric's thigh, so he comes to stand on Eric's left side.

'Not me, I'm going to the US, sorry.'

Eric makes a disappointed sound.

'Viggo will have to live, I reckon. Have you seen him by any chance?'

Gerry thinks about that for a moment, then shakes his head.

'Not since lunch, since he tried to convince Jeremy Needham to spit into Orlando's soup.'

Eric frowns.

'He did?'

'I was reading between the lines,' Gerry makes a dismissive gesture which, spontaneously, he then expands to encompass Eric as well. 'Why _are_ you sitting on the lawn?'

Eric lifts one shoulder in a shrug.

'Last training session of the year is over. Just thought I would -'

'Relish the moment.'

'Commiserate the fact that there won't be any more cricket for six weeks.'

'That is tragic.'

'Don't mock my pain.'

Gerry shakes his head, then sits down on the ground, facing Eric.

'Good year?' he asks, then adds, 'Fuck, the grass is wet.'

'Yeah, fantastic year,' Eric replies and sounds extremely happy with himself and the world at large. 'And you're gonna get grass stains on your jeans.'

Gerry hums but doesn't move. The next fifteen minutes consist of a conversation that is to equal parts about cricket, removing stains, and Greece vs. the US as holiday destinations. Gerry is right in the middle of arguing the point of California, when Craig rounds the corner at high speed – for whatever reason, really, it is five in the afternoon -, stumbles over Eric's legs and lands on Gerry.

***

[written by noalinnea]

One could say that lightfootedness is among Cate’s many admirable qualities (Sean).  
Or that she is sneaky as fuck (Richard).  
Be that as it may, even Cate needs intricate tactics if she wants to smell her co-workers clothes, preferably without having them notice it. If you asked Cate, she would freely admit to that. Cunning tactics. And quite a bit of stealth. To her, the ‘without-having-them-notice-it’ part of the operation is at best optional, though, it simply is what she considers to be the polite way to go about things, but it most certainly is not paramount to her proceedings. Because: time is short before everybody disperses when the term ends. And Cate would absolutely hate having to wait until autumn comes until her curiosity is satisfied re: the question which one of her dear colleagues Richard is doing (on quite a regular basis, as it appears).  
Lamentably, her little project had to be briefly suspended during the school trip to Paris when she had to idly twiddle her thumbs while her students snogged each other in various combinations all over la cité de l’amour in day time and then at night either tried to a) sneak out of the hostel or b) sneak alcohol into the hostel and Bernard was being Bernard. Because Bernard does smell of a great many things- green meadows, his cottage and Marianne for example- but nothing that even remotely resembles Richard’s cologne. Not that Cate did not know that before she got on the bus- Bernard was a fairly long shot to begin with, or longer than long, but better safe than sorry, and there was more than ample opportunity to borrow his jacket in the surprisingly chilly Parisian evenings.  
So, Bernard is off the list. Which he shouldn’t even have been on, because he technically does not live on school grounds, even if he appears to be uncertain about this fact at times. But well, Cate has learned the hard way never to be certain about anything where Bernie is considered.  
The rules of logic (and her knowledge of Richard’s taste in bedmates) have allowed her to exclude Ian and John during the preliminary stage of analysis, because no and no, and she does not really wish to dwell further on those thoughts. Also, Matt’s name could be crossed off her list straight away, because Kiele would never let that happen. Neither would Beth, by the way, which took Karl out of the picture (also, Cate is under the impression that Richard likes to be the one who has the firmer abs. That ruled out Beth, too, even if she had too many breasts to be considered a valid candidate in the first place. But again, better safe than sorry.)  
Gerry smells of ponies, Miranda’s ducklings (they have grown like weed. Gerry smells faintly of weed sometimes, as well) and strawberry jam, so it can’t be him. Also, he has never shown any particular interest in men, either, as far as Cate is aware, aside from his unhealthy attachment to West, and West, for his part, seems to attach great importance to keeping things platonic. And Richard is not insane, even if he does have a weird taste in men (the last guy was a complete dick and Cate gets still mad when she thinks about him). So, Gerry.  
Craig, then? Actually interested in men and maybe actually an option? Because a) he’s fun to be around and sweet and someone like him might be good for Richard, and b) Richard does have firmer abs than he. But what makes him appear an unlikely candiate is that a) he does not live on school grounds (and why is this so hard?) and b) his aftershave gives her a headache (Richard’s makes her want to ask him for the next dance)  
Sean… er… no. Sean might be one of the most wonderful men on the planet (and possibly the universe), but he also is the straightest guy she knows. And although he smells of tea, which Richard sometimes does as well, he also smells of football, something Richard does not care about. And Richard would go mad if he regularly had to watch Emmerdale.  
Viggo smells of earth and sun and cedars and of Eric, who smells of motor oil, car wax, calculus and Viggo. While they are rumored to be open for propositions and the odd threesome, Cate has observed them weaving a forever tightening bond over the past two decades, and is fairly certain that that kind of thing is in the distant past and that there is no room for anybody else. Also, Richard might have mentioned it if he had hooked up with not one but two guys.  
While Gerry and Viggo and even Eric have not put up any particular resistance to being hugged or have appeared to think anything of it, and neither has Sean, Craig has been tougher to get at (Cate needed to verify her hypothesis, of course). They are not close, and even if the end justifies the means, Cate had reservations to just hug him and secretly sniff his neck in the process, as she had done with the others. Sadly, there were no events either that called for spontaneous outbursts of cheer, like sports for expample (she has hugged Karl in feigned ecstasy at the sidelines of the football field, and then hidden from Beth for the next four days. Karl smells of sportsmanship, Boris and cotton.), and the weather conditions did not justify asking to borrow his sweater. But then she finally got lucky during the presentations at the end of project oriented learning week where she found herself standing next to him, and when he had to assist one of the students with the headwear of his costume that kept falling apart, he asked her to hold his sweater. It had taken some maneuvering not to be seen while giving it a quick sniff, though (laundry detergent, peppermint and that god awful aftershave, quot erat demonstrandum), but there had been a convenient commotion on stage that had distracted his attention long enough to do so.  
All of this has left only one person to sniff before the holidays, and when the last week of the school year starts, Cate still does not have any inkling as to how to go about things. Hugging is completely out of the question, because of the possibly severe health risks attached to it. Also, the man in question does have this almost intimidating ability to see right through bullshit excuses. And he is not to be parted from his cardigan (were they living in a different century, he surely would not be the guy who would lay down his mantle in the mud to protect a ladies’ delicate footwear). Briefly, she has contemplated to simply ask to be allowed to smell him, aware of the fact that the request might sound a little eccentric. But all that would have achieved would have been to put him on his guard, because no way he wouldn't have refused her without a second's thought. Just as briefly, she has considered asking Sean for his help. But a) she doesn’t believe that his sense of smell compares to hers, and b) she is quite certain that he already has maxed out his number of hugs for the year.  
So, it all comes down to endurance and luck, basically. The last days before the holidays are filled to the brim with stuff that just needs to get done, and on Tuesday, Cate is not any nearer to answering her question than she has been three weeks ago. But well, good things come to those who wait, and maybe Richard will simply tell her after all, with a little bit of gentle coercion, during the holidays. In the morning, Cate has croissants et chocolat with her A-Level students while they tell her about their plans for the summer, en Français, naturellement, and by the time she gets to the teacher’s lounge, she has almost forgotten about project cologne. Viggo and Sean are sitting at one of the tables, both in the process of stirring sugar into their tea (on Viggo’s side of the table the air smells faintly of cinnamon), despite the heat that doesn’t seem to call for hot beverages. They both look up to smile at her when she steps up to them.  
‘Est-ce que cette place est occupée, monsieurs?’ Cate asks, smiling, and encounters a touchingly blank expression on Sean’s face while Viggo beams at her and replies in a Québécois accent:  
‘Asseyez-vous, madame, s'il vous plait, asseyez-vous.'  
Cate pulls out a chair and is about to sit down, when Sean snaps out of his puzzlement and shakes his head. ‘Wait, Orlando's sitting here, he just went out to take a call. But let me just put his cardigan over there,’ he suggests, reaching out to take the cardigan from where it's hanging on the backrest of the chair, but then stops and arches up a brow when Cate, quick as a cat, leaps out, snatches it and presses it against her face to inhale deeply. When she lets it sink a second later, she is smiling a smile that is both triumphant and predatory.

'Madame, vous ne vous sentez pas bien?' Viggo asks, his head cocked to the side.

She just shakes her head and sits down and starts to neatly fold up the cardigan, still smiling. 

'Au contraire, monsieur, au contraire."

***

In hindsight, Sean, Viggo, Miranda, and Dom should have listened to Orlando. But Miranda usually can trust her own judgment pretty well, Viggo would _never_ listen to Orlando, Dom habitually doesn't listen to anyone, especially not common sense, and Sean, well Sean was pretty much the only one out of the four who arrived at Bernie's with exactly the right expectations for the evening.

The result, in all four cases, is pretty much the same. When they leave Bernie's house at around midnight, they did accomplish their goal of the evening all right; they chose ten very fine wines to give to John as a retirement gift on the party on Friday. Also, what Orlando predicted when he heard of their mid-week-wine-sampling-plan at Bernard's place aka Dionysus's Yorkshire headquarters? Exactly what happened. All for of them are royally and utterly pissed. 

Miranda (very wisely) takes up Marianne's offer to kip on their couch. Dom falls asleep against a traffic light when they walk back, and Sean and Viggo only notice five minutes later that they left him behind and then decide that it's not really worth going back. Sean drunk-dials Orlando to tell him – well, yell at him because Sean doesn't really have a concept of noise when he is sloshed, thankfully they are in the middle of the forest – that he is really bummed about missing out on the motorcycle trip to Poland with Karl and Orlando. Orlando, in his caring and empathetic way, tells him to go fuck himself, hangs up and goes back to sleep. Viggo in the meantime makes retching noises at Sean; not so much in response to the sentimentality per se but because of the sentimentality being directed at 'that faithless robot-demon and the smelly what's that fruit again? Piyata? No... Avocado? Hmm, no. Something else. Greener. And hairy. Though I could eat an avocado now. Have you ever tried avocado with garlic, Sean?'.

Sean for his part is not necessarily the best person to be around when drunk, though. He has been known to be an enabler when pissed. And also even more hungry than usual.

Which is how, at 1.30 a.m. Eric enters Arnor House's common kitchen to investigate suspicious noises to find Viggo slicing fruits and vegetables while Sean apparently has a conversation with someone's answering service.

(cont' by noalinnea)

Eric halts in the doorway and takes in the picture that's presenting itself to him: Viggo is at the kitchen counter, barefoot, a kitchen towel flung over his shoulder and humming amelodically to himself while he appears to be peeling a cucumber. Sean is leaning against the fridge and appears to be not far away from sliding to the floor while he is talking into his phone, not using his indoor voice. Maybe because the phone is upside down. Or maybe because he is trying to get Orlando to wake up three houses away so that he can properly scold him for going on holidays with Karl and not with him.

When there are footsteps behind him and a sleepy voice asks: 'Um, Mr. Bana?' Eric turns around and fleetingly wishes he had had the sense to put on slightly more clothes than a t-shirt and Viggo's checkered pajama bottoms when he encounters a bleary eyed second former (Franca? Francine? Amanda?).

'Go back to bed,' Eric simply says in want of a better strategy. And her name.

The girl seems to contemplate his answer for a moment before she nods and turns around to shuffle back upstairs. After a couple of steps she turns around again: 'Maybe you could ask Mr. Bean to tone it down a little, though?'

Eric just nods and turns back towards the two boozehounds. With a sigh he steps into the kitchen and makes his way over to Viggo. 

Who, caught up in his little project- cucumber, paprika and kiwi salad with avocado as a side dish, as it appears- does not notice him for a moment, and only looks up when Eric reaches out to place his hand on his arm. He blinks a couple of times as if to bring him into focus but then his lips stretch into a smile. 'Hi, Eric!' he says, his voice a little hoarse, as if he's shouted his lungs out (which he probably has).

Eric nods and tries to suppress a smile. He gently wraps his fingers around Viggo's wrist and stops his mutilation of perfectly good food.

'Hi,' he says. 'So you're back?'

'Yes!' Viggo beams at him.

'I take it the evening was a success?' Eric asks and puts away the knife.

Viggo nods. 'Absoutely!'

Eric retrieves cling film from one of the drawers and starts wrapping up the vegetables and fruit Viggo has managed to slice (or chop, rather).

'That's great,' he offers, smiling at Viggo.

Viggo looks content. 'You should've come,' he says, cocking his head to the side.

Eric hums. 'Next time.'

Viggo simply nods at that, failing to remark that John probably will only retire once and therefore will only require one present.

'We can have that for breakfast tomorrow,' he then says and gestures at the vegetably and fruity mess Eric has now finished wrapping up.

'Sure,' Eric just says and turns towards the fridge to dump everything there. Out of sight, out of mind. But Sean has still not finished his rant and is blocking the way.

Eric sighs, again, and puts down the vegetables. 

'Sean,' he then says.

Sean is too busy yelling into his phone than to notice him.

Eric places a hand on his shoulder. 'Sean!' he then repeats, raising his voice.

Sean arches his eyebrows. 'What?'

'Your phone is upside down, mate,' Eric says helpfully.

Sean looks at him for a moment, puzzled.

'What?' he then asks, still not using his indoor voice.

'Your-phone-is-upside-down,' Eric repeats, enunciating clearly.

Sean looks at him for another moment, now appearing thoughtful, before he lowers his phone to look at it.

'Also, the battery seems to be empty,' Eric remarks.

'Huh,' Sean says and then shrugs and and pockets the phone. He sways a little when he pushes away from the fridge: 'I better go find Orlando then,' he says, half directed at himself, half at Eric.

Eric pats his shoulder: 'Sure, mate, you do that.'

Sean nods and manages to only walk into three pieces of furniture on the way out. It's quiet in the kitchen when the sound of the front door being slammed shut dies down. Eric turns around to find Viggo fast asleep in on of the chairs, his head resting on his arms on the table.

He contemplates just letting him sleep there but then decides to take him upstairs, for entirely selfish reasons, really. He puts the vegetables into the fridge and quickly wipes the worktop down with the dishcloth before he walks over to Viggo. Reaching out to card his fingers through his hair he says quietly:

'Wake up, Viggo.'

Viggo barely stirs, and Eric bends down to him and presses a kiss against his stubbly cheek. 'Wake up, sleeping beauty,' he says, a little louder, and Viggo opens his eyes.

'Huh?' he asks, clearly at a loss as to where he is.

Eric hooks his hand under his arm and pulls him to his feet: 'Let's get you to bed,' he suggests, and Viggo just nods.

Eric wraps his arm around his shoulders when he switches off the kitchen lights and Viggo leans his head against his shoulder and lets himself be lead upstairs.

'Did you have a good time?' Eric asks quietly when they are turning into the corridor that leads to Viggo's flat.

'Yes.' Viggo nods. 'You weren't there, though,' he then remarks, sounding a little wistful.

'I know,' Eric answers and turns his head to drop a kiss onto Viggo's forehead.

Viggo stops and lifts his head to smile at him in the dim light of the corridor.

'Next time,' he says and reaches out to trail his fingers over Eric's cheek.

Eric leans into the touch and nods. 'Yeah, next time.' 

***

In the wake of last night's accidental wine tasting booze up, several different approaches to the concept of aftercare are employed while – and this is somewhat worth pointing out, considering how much work there is to do on the second to last day of school – Cate pretty much runs the entire school because a lot of her colleagues are closeted alcoholics.

Miranda receives Aspirin, breakfast, and a ride back to JC from Marianne, Bernard's wife. Bernard offered to take her himself, but considering that his blood alcohol level is still at astronomical levels, Marianne would've only allowed him to take the bike. Miranda is not a friend of the idea of riding on the back of that; the village is paved with cobble stone.

Dom actually made it home and found his flat. He did end up sleeping in the bathtub, not his bed, though he isn't so sure why that is. He is also naked and used a towel as a blanket. That is convenient because that way he can take a bath before first period without having to get up first.

Eric wakes up to find Viggo eating avocado next to him. Viggo claims that avocado is the new wonder cure for hangovers. Eric hums in response and is about to fall asleep again when Viggo, very chipper and definitely not hung over at all (kudos, avocado), starts relaying to him the details of last night. Eric laughs himself fully awake in the next five minutes.

Sean doesn't have the advantage of avocado for breakfast. He sits at the teachers' table in the common dining room and really just wants to sip his tea in peace and feel sorry for himself. Orlando sits next to him and talks to Gerry about runny eggs, roller coaster rides, and other vomit-inducing subjects loud enough for it to repeatedly turn heads at some of the pupils' tables. Gerry, for his part, has no idea that he is made a pawn in Orlando's revenge. He does enjoy the early morning grossness just for the sake of it.

***

[written by noalinnea]

Eric halts in the doorway and takes in the picture that's presenting itself to him: Viggo is at the kitchen counter, barefoot, a kitchen towel flung over his shoulder, humming inharmoniously to himself while he appears to be peeling a cucumber. Sean is leaning against the fridge and looks as if he's not far away from sliding to the floor. He is talking into his phone, not using his indoor voice. Maybe because the phone is upside down. Or maybe because he is trying to get Orlando to wake up three houses away so that he can properly scold him for going on holidays with Karl and not with him.

When there are footsteps behind him and a sleepy voice asks: 'Um, Mr. Bana?' Eric turns around and fleetingly wishes he had had the sense to put on slightly more clothes than a t-shirt and Viggo's checkered pajama bottoms when he encounters a bleary eyed second former (Franca? Francine? Amanda?).

'Go back to bed,' Eric simply says in want of a better strategy. And her name.

The girl seems to contemplate his answer for a moment before she nods and turns around to shuffle back upstairs. After a couple of steps she turns around again: 'Maybe you could ask Mr. Bean to tone it down a little, though?'

Eric just nods and turns back towards the two boozehounds. With a sigh he steps into the kitchen and makes his way over to Viggo. 

Who, caught up in his little project- cucumber, paprika and kiwi salad with avocado as a side dish, as it appears- does not notice him and only looks up when Eric reaches out to place his hand on his arm. He blinks a couple of times as if to bring him into focus but then his lips stretch into a smile. 'Hi, Eric!' he says, his voice a little hoarse, as if he's shouted his lungs out (which he probably has).

Eric nods and tries to suppress a smile. He gently wraps his fingers around Viggo's wrist and stops his mutilation of perfectly good food.

'Hi,' he says. 'So you're back?'

'Yes!' Viggo beams at him.

'I take it the evening was a success?' Eric asks and puts away the knife.

Viggo nods. 'Absolutely!'

Eric retrieves cling film from one of the drawers and starts wrapping up the vegetables and fruit Viggo has managed to slice (or chop, rather).

'That's great,' he offers, smiling at Viggo.

Viggo looks content. 'You should've come,' he says, cocking his head to the side.

Eric hums. 'Next time.'

Viggo simply nods at that, failing to remark that John probably will only retire once and therefore will only require one present.

'We can have that for breakfast tomorrow,' he then says and gestures at the vegetably and fruity mess Eric has now finished wrapping up.

'Sure,' Eric just says and turns towards the fridge to dump everything there. Out of sight, out of mind. But Sean has still not finished his rant and is blocking the way.

Eric sighs, again, and puts down the vegetables. 

'Sean,' he then says.

Sean is too busy with yelling into his phone to notice him.

Eric places a hand on his shoulder. 'Sean!' he repeats, raising his voice.

Sean arches his eyebrows. 'What?'

'Your phone is upside down, mate,' Eric says helpfully.

Sean looks at him for a moment, puzzled.

'What?' he asks, still not using his indoor voice.

'Your-phone-is-upside-down,' Eric repeats, enunciating clearly.

Sean looks at him for another moment, now appearing thoughtful, before he lowers his phone to look at it.

'Also, the battery seems to be empty,' Eric remarks.

'Huh,' Sean says and then shrugs and pockets the phone. He sways a little when he pushes away from the fridge: 'I better go find Orlando then,' he says, half directed at himself, half at Eric.

Eric pats his shoulder: 'Sure, mate, you do that.'

Sean nods and manages to only walk into three pieces of furniture on the way out. It's quiet in the kitchen when the sound of the front door being slammed shut dies down. Eric turns around to find Viggo fast asleep in one of the chairs, his head resting on his arms on the table.

He contemplates just letting him sleep there but then decides to take him upstairs, for entirely selfish reasons, really. He puts the vegetables into the fridge and quickly wipes the worktop down with the dishcloth before he walks over to Viggo. Reaching out to card his fingers through his hair he says quietly:

'Viggo, wake up.'

Viggo barely stirs, and Eric bends down to him and presses a kiss against his stubbly cheek. 'Wake up, sleeping beauty,' he says, a little louder, and Viggo opens his eyes.

'What?' he asks, clearly at a loss as to where he is.

Eric hooks his hands under his arms and pulls him to his feet: 'Let's get you to bed,' he suggests, and Viggo smiles at him and nods.

Eric wraps his arm around his shoulders when he turns off the kitchen lights and Viggo leans his head against his shoulder and let's himself be lead upstairs.

'Did you have a good time?' Eric asks quietly when they are turning into the corridor that leads to Viggo's flat.

'Yes.' Viggo nods. 'You weren't there, though,' he then remarks, sounding a little wistful.

'I know,' Eric answers and turns his head to drop a kiss onto Viggo's forehead.

Viggo stops and lifts his head to smile at him in the dim light of the corridor.

'Next time,' he says and reaches out to trail his fingers over Eric's cheek.

Eric leans into the touch and nods. 'Yeah, next time.' 

***

There are a myriad of things happening on the last day of school at JC. Some start with tears, some end with them, some are happy tears, some sad ones (there is, it may be noteworthy, quite a bit of crying going on. Some people blame pollen.). At some point or other during the upcoming holidays, every JCer will most probably have a moment of fond recollection of one moment or other from this Friday.

There is, however, one small incident worth mentioning now. It's late afternoon – all report cards have been handed out, most of the kids are busy packing, and Viggo is in the kitchen of Arnor House, trying to bake a cake for John's retirement bash (emphasis on 'trying) – when Maddy Friedman pokes his shoulder, clears her throat and then beckons him to follow her. She is only five feet tall, but Viggo (hands covered in flour) still does as he is told because of the long-suffering expression on her face. She will make a fine actress one day soon, he thinks as he follows her up the stairs to her room. There is a reason why both Johnny and Eric won't shut up about the comedic talent that she regularly shows in drama club.

She doesn't disappoint this time either. When she halts in front of her open door and wordlessly points inside, the first thing that Viggo sees is her room mate Patricia Cole who is sitting at her desk and grinning broadly. Maddy's face, on the other hand, still shows nothing but exasperation. When Viggo raises an eyebrow at her, she grabs his sleeve and pulls him into the door frame, then points at her bed, shoved up to the side of the wall, that is substituting as a couch during daytime.

And kudos to her, and to Eric's and Johnny's skills as drama tutors. Because when Viggo sees what she is pointing at, he can't help but laugh out loud. There are Thomas Pierce and Devon Shaw, Maddy's and Patricia's boyfriends, sitting on the couch-bed with their backs leaned against the wall and their faces slack. They are fast asleep. So is the third person in the row, leaned against the wall as well, a copy of the play that Maddy has been writing all year, on his lap. It's Eric of course.

'He fell asleep in the middle of the third act,' Maddy says and points at Eric.

'So did Thommy and Dev,' Patricia says, that huge grin still on her face. 'Maybe the play isn't that good, Mads.'

Maddy gives her a dark glare that silences Patricia before she looks back at Viggo expectantly.

'I'm sure it's exciting,' Viggo says, even though she doesn't particularly seem in need of reassurance. 'We all just had a long year, right?'

'Yeah, sure,' Maddy says with a shrug, then points her thumb at Eric again whose jaw has dropped a bit now. He'll be snoring in about two minutes. 

'Can you maybe wake him anyway and get him, like, elsewhere? I need my bed to pack my suitcase.'

***

By two in the afternoon, the majority of JC's boarders has left the school's premises. Off to visit their parents all over the world, picked up by said parents, dropped off at York's train station to go away for summer camp. Jackson College is quiet and that there is no tumble weed bumbling about the place is pretty much just due to the gardeners' excellent work.

All six heads of house have different rituals for this sudden loss of purpose / blessed freedom.

The head of Wellesley Hall does not exactly have a good cry about it. Because he is from the North, and men from the North don't have good cries about anything, unless we are talking Sheffield's best football club or a long running soap set in the Dales. So there is no crying per se. But there are a lot of wistful looks as he checks the empty rooms for things like forgotten food (more for hygienic reasons and not so much to eat it, though back in 2008 he helped himself to a set of wonderful chocolates from Belgium that would've gone stale over the holidays anyway). He also spends a lot of time in Tala, the central common room with the photos on the walls, and most of his smiles are accompanied by a little sigh.

The head of Mirkwood House subsequently goes out of his way to stay out of the way of so much useless sentimentality. He definitely doesn't drop in at Wellesley for a brew. He checks the empty rooms for bodies, and if he happens to find them not spotless clean, he orders some of the few boarders still present to clean up after their sloppy mates. If the weather allows it, he takes out one of his two motorbikes and goes for a prolonged ride; the destination being pretty irrelevant usually, though maybe this year something (or rather someone) might direct the BMW or the Yamaha towards Bishopshill.

The head of Austen House opens a bottle of Château Grand Puy Lacoste in the middle of the day and drinks a glass of wonderfully decadent red on the balcony of her house, her naked feet propped against the banister and a copy of a book written by the namesake of her house in her lap.

The head of Palm House is not really a wine buff. She and her husband appreciate a cold lager, though, even if they wait for it till the sun is going down and they sit on the lawn in front of their house. The afternoon they spent inside, looking at pictures from previous holidays and coming up with details for the upcoming one in Florida. It's a good thing, too, that they postpone the lager till the evening; he comes up with stories about gator hunting in the Glades and she counters with more and more complicated murders to be solved, and they are giggly enough even without the addition of alcohol thrown into the mix.

The head of Arnor House always claims the school year could've gone on for another two weeks at least, he isn't tired. He continues trying to prove his point by using all that extra energy he has, since the majority of his charges have fled the nest, by trying to clean up said nest. He cleans up the library, empties out the fridge, straightens the picture frames in the hallway, does the laundry – and most of the stuff at the same time. The house mother is nowhere to be seen during all of this; she is not insane. The other bloke living at Arnor House recognizes that kind of behaviour for the distraction it is from suddenly having hardly anyone to fuss over / to be exasperated about. He spends the better part of the day out, tending to his car, before he comes home to find loud music coming from the common room and the handful of boarders still left rolling their eyes at him as they run into him in the hallway. It is not exactly the job of the head of house to paint over nicks on the red walls of the common room, but that is of course what he is doing, humming along to the song coming from the radio and absentmindedly swinging his hips to match the rhythm. The song changes every year – this year it is Shakira – but the rest of the routine is pretty much the same every time; of course there is dancing next to the pool table.

The head of Erebor Manor had a lot of first-day-of-the-holidays traditions – a surprising amount of which involved lobsters and one even included the usage of multiple axes (you don't want to know). However, in 2017 – his last year in Jackson College – he hopes to have installed a new one. He and his successor have a wonderful breakfast, and a well-timed anecdote about some of his pupils' past shenanigans has her snorting champagne through her nose.

***

[written by noalinnea]

On Saturday evening, after he has finished touching up the paint of the common room’s wall, Viggo goes looking for Eric. The house is quiet except for the sound his bare feet make on the linoleum floors, the remaining kids appear to have holed up somewhere else, and Viggo hums quietly to himself when he climbs up the stairs to Eric’s flat. He finds him sprawled out on the couch in front of the TV, a beer in his hand. When Viggo knocks against the doorframe with paint stained hands and asks if he can come in although he’s wearing war paint, Eric just grins at him and beckons him to come over. Viggo closes the door behind himself and makes his way over to the couch, flopping down next to Eric. Eric regards him in silence for a moment, and then just shakes his head and hands over his beer.  
‘Every year, huh?’ he asks quietly, his eyes drifting back to the cricket match.  
Viggo takes a sip of his beer and nods. ‘I guess so.’  
Eric just hums.  
‘What did you do all day?’ Viggo asks, letting his head sink back against the backrest and turning to look at him.  
Eric shrugs. ‘Vacuumed and washed the Falcon, polished it, I guess.’  
Viggo doesn’t answer straight away but just looks at Eric.  
‘I’m sorry,’ he then says, and sighs.  
Eric turns towards him and arches an eyebrow. ‘What for?’  
Viggo shrugs. ‘It’s the first day of the holidays and I just spent it painting a wall.’  
‘Yes?’ Eric asks, searching Viggo eyes.  
Viggo rubs at a dried paint stain on his forehead and sighs again.  
‘I could’ve spent the day with you,’ he says, almost sounding a little impatient.  
Eric contemplates this for a moment and then nods.  
‘Yes, you could have.’ He pauses and takes the beer out of Viggo’s hand to take another sip.  
‘You needed to take farewell of the kids, though,’ he then says, and a smile is playing around his lips. ‘It’s your end-of-the-year-ritual.’  
Viggo furrows his brow. ‘It sort of is, isn’t it?’  
He reaches for the beer.  
Eric hums. ‘It is.’ He nudges Viggo’s knee with his. ‘It’s fine.’  
Viggo nods, a small smile on his lips now. ‘Okay.’  
He fiddles with the beer bottle’s label for a moment, absent-mindedly glancing at the TV.  
‘That’s a taped one,’ he then bursts out, all indignation, and Eric laughs.  
‘Of course, there wasn’t anything decent on,’ he says in defense.  
Viggo shakes his head and reaches for the remote.  
‘That won’t do,’ he exclaims and switches off the TV.  
Eric just looks at him, amusement written all over his face.  
Viggo shakes his head, again. ‘Let’s go out,’ he says and sits up. ‘I’m going to buy you dinner.’  
‘Hear, hear,’ Eric says, grinning.  
‘Well, The Pony will have to do,’ Viggo replies, now grinning, too.  
Eric sighs and gestures at his threadbare track pants. ‘And here I was, dressed up, waiting for you all night, and all you can think of is the pub…’  
Viggo laughs and almost snorts beer through his nose. ‘Oh, my poor darling,’ he then coos and pulls Eric into a one armed hug, balancing the beet bottle in the other hand.  
Eric laughs and reaches for the bottle. ‘Give me that before you spill it,’ he says and tosses back his head to finish the last of the beer in one go.  
Viggo grins at him. He waits for Eric to set the empty bottle onto the coffee table before he reaches for his hand and laces his fingers through Eric’s.  
‘I tell you what,’ he says quietly. ‘We’re going to the pub now, and tomorrow we’re going for a drive and I’m going to treat you to coffee and a muffin at that little coffee place you like so much.’  
Eric smiles at him. ‘Deal.’ He squeezes Viggo’s hand. ‘Can we sleep in, though?’ he then asks, resting his head against Viggo’s shoulder.  
Viggo hums. ‘As long as you want.’  
‘As long as we can,’ Eric replies. ‘And then I want to have sex, and the sleep a little more, and then have breakfast in bed, and more sex maybe, and then we can go for that drive.’  
Viggo chuckles. ‘Deal.’  
   
So, that’s why Sunday morning finds them curled up in Eric’s bed. Viggo is upside down for some reason or the other, and his head is precariously close to Eric’s feet. He sets out to remedy that while waking up Eric with pressing a series of stubbly-butterfy kisses to every inch of his body that he can reach, starting at the soles of his feet. His tactic causes Eric to wake up laughing and kicking, and Viggo, using the advantage of being the one fully awake, stops to pin him down with his bodies' warm weight and kiss away any lingering sleepiness. They stick to Eric’s plan and go back to sleep afterwards, and when Viggo wakes up half an hour later, he decides to make waffles. He then carries them into the bedroom and breakfast in bed ensues, and when Eric licks the last traces of maple syrup off his fingertips, Viggo is already pushing him back into the cushions, choosing to ignore the clatter of the tray sliding to the floor. An hour later the sun peers in through the curtains and Eric drags Viggo out of bed, under the shower and into the garage, and then they are on their way to the coast, Eric listening to the humming of the Falcon’s engine contentedly while Viggo interprets the shapes of the fluffy cumulus clouds ahead of them for him.

***

_Hiya, this is Jane Thelwell, and you've reached The Pony Club. I cannot take your call right now, probably because I am brushing a pony. But if you want to, you can leave a message with your concern and your number, and I promise to get back to you as soon as I took off my muddy boots_

All right, Janey? This is Gerry speaking, reporting for duty. No, wait, not duty. That'd be a bit difficult, what with me not being in the country and everything. Though I reckon if you paid the bill, I suppose I could talk to Al Capony over the phone and get him to sleep? I mean, how no? Anyroad, not why I am calling now. I'm calling to tell you, as you requested, that I arrived safely at LAX. I didn't get lost in translation, which means you and the other nonbelievers now owe me a sack of carrots. Mind, my flight was nonstop from London, so to be honest, if I'd missed that, I still wouldn't have been lost. But a bet's a bet, and it's your turn to pay up. You can start by giving Al some of my carrots. You were right about the in-flight food and entertainment, though, I'm in proper need of something to bite and a ginger right now, and I'm already done with the book you let me borrow. Oh, also, I kinda forgot the book on the plane. Well, I didn't so much forget it as give it to this wee little girl who wanted to have it. I promise to bring you something to make up for it. How do you feel about a couple of pockets full of sand? I'd promise you a jellyfish cause it'd make an awesome addition to – oh, aye, mate, sure, there you go... proper heavy, that is, what do you have in there, bricks? - Sorry bout that, Janey, I'm still stuck at the conveyor belt because apparently American Airways lost my luggage. That'd be a wee bit inconvenient. Do you think I can learn to surf in my boxers? They probably have wet suits there, though. Not sure how I feel about pressing myself into a borrowed wet suit, though. Isn't that a bit like rinsing out a condom and – oh, I'm getting funny looks here. Right, right. US of A, land of the puritan bampots. Good thing I didn't decide to wear my kilt then, eh. Anyroad, Janey, I reckon I just spotted my backpack, so I'm gonna hang up now and find myself some food and a hotel or summat. Remember to give Al Capony my carrots, what with me being gone for three weeks, he's gonna miss me. Well, I reckon you can have one as well, in that case, aye?

***

 

‘Mate, you look horrible,’ Sean says to Eric before stuffing half a waffle into his mouth.

Eric replies by flipping him off, or at least trying to. As it turns out, he is a bit too tired to coordinate which finger to raise. Sean grins, part of his waffle showing. Orlando frowns in response to that and gestures Dom to give him the whipped cream. Viggo consolingly pats Eric’s shoulder, wiping off traces of honey on his checkered shirt in the process.

It’s Monday morning, and they are having breakfast in front of the ‘Pony’. With almost all the boarders away by now, JC’s kitchen staff has been sent on holiday as well, leaving it to the staffers to feed themselves. This traditionally means that they take turns in hosting breakfast in their houses or - if they fail to find someone to provide food - to invade the Pony that has a surprisingly awesome breakfast menu.

Eric, however, doesn’t seem to be able to properly enjoy waffles and beans and bacon on this sunny morning in July. His right hand holds the fork all right, and it has scrambled egg on it, but he has been holding it for so long that Sean has started making flirty eyes at Eric’s breakfast and has so far just been held back from commandeering plate and fork and eggs and all by the presence of Orlando.

‘What’s up with you?’ Orlando asks, the disinterest in his voice making it very clear that he is asking because politeness dictates it, not because he actually wants to know.

Eric’s reply is slightly muffled because his left hand is keeping his head from conking onto the table by propping it up by the chin.

‘I barely slept. I had a nightmare.’

Orlando hums and, since his tribute to the gods of good manners have been paid, returns to cutting up his waffle into neat little squares. Sean and Viggo look somewhat sorry for Eric. Dom, predictably, doesn’t.

‘What was it about?’ he asks gleefully. ‘Someone tried to divide by zero?’

Eric makes a groaning sound, and Dom snickers, nearly spitting beans over the table.

‘Someone hid all your calculators?’ Dom tries again.

‘No. Leave me alone,’ Eric grumbles.

Dom, very grossly, licks bean sauce from his fork.

‘Someone spanked you with a ruler?’

Eric groans again, and Dom is faced with varying degrees of skepticism from the other three members of their breakfast party. He remains unfazed and shrugs.

‘What? It’s the only other thing with maths stuff I could come up with on the fly,’ he says somewhat reasonably. ‘That it’s a bit kinky is just an added bonus.’

‘Why are you even here?’ Viggo asks, in that polite nonchalant way of his that usually is the preface to him shoving you into a puddle.

Dom is impervious to that as well. He uses his fork to gesture at Orlando - well, to nearly poke Orlando’s eye out with it, really.

‘Bike trip with Lando.’

‘Not if you blind me first,’ Orlando argues dryly.

Sean, who has by now swallowed enough of his waffle to make himself understood again, makes a sound of disagreement.

‘Pretty sure you’re still the better biker, even if you wore an eyepatch.’

‘Oi!’ Dom protests, but no one comes to his aid.

‘You let him drive one of your bikes?’ Eric asks Orlando with something like the pre-coffee version of horror.

Orlando shrugs.

‘The Yamaha is pretty tame,’ he says matter-of-factly. ‘And I insured it against pretty much everything.’

Eric’s bleary petrolhead stare of disapproval is met by Orlando’s utter disregard of emotionalism in the middle of the table, right above the pancakes that Sean quickly pulls out of harms way and mostly onto his plate.

‘I’m still undecided which one to take to Poland,’ Orlando says in an uncharacteristic attempt to show patience and explain himself to Eric.

‘The decision will be made for you once Dom wrapped the Yamaha around a tree,’ Sean says merrily and not at all concerned for Dom’s safety.

‘What are _you_ even doing here?’ Dom now asks in a fairly good imitation of Viggo’s voice of threats.

Sean shrugs.

‘It’s Monday. Waffle day, mate.’ he says.

‘I reckon he is questioning your raison d’etre as a whole.’ Orlando says, filling the square holes of his waffle bits with neat blobs of syrup. ‘Your entire right of being.’

Viggo opens his mouth on autopilot, but then shuts it again and instead helps himself to some melon slices.

Dom shakes his head.

‘No, actually, I was asking whether Cate canceled your friendship. Isn’t she holding some fancy breakfast do at her place right this very moment?’

‘Kiele and Mir are there,’ Viggo says in something like agreement, and with a half-smile he adds, ‘Grown up party too much for you?’

Sean pulls a face.

‘Nah, but she’s serving all kinds of fancy French shit, like snails.’

His entire body shudders, and he turns back to his safe and very British beans and eggs.

‘That’s pretty much _my_ definition of a nightmare.’

With that, the general attention shifts back to Eric who in the meantime started delicately nibbling on some bacon. Feeling the majority of eyes on him, he huffs.

‘Mine was about the Falcon.’

Dom makes an understanding humming sound that never is a good thing.

‘I see, a sex dream involving the Falcon. Interesting.’

Sean stuffs waffles into his mouth. Viggo looks at Eric. Eric’s bacon stops mid air. Orlando huffs.

‘No, it isn’t,’ he says. ‘And if Dom’s wild guess happens to be accurate, I don’t want to hear anything about it.’

Sean makes a sound of agreement around half a pound of breakfast food. Viggo pats Eric’s shoulder, this time solely meant as comfort not also to get rid of sticky stuff. Naturally, Dom ignores all of it.

‘I mean we’ve all seen 70s soft porn flicks and know where public car washing leads,’ he muses out loud. ‘I’m guessing one of the car washers was Viggo, yeah?’

He willfully misinterprets the stunned silence around the table as a sign of agreement and nods.

‘Considering the soft porn scenario, one car washer is not enough, though, no matter how skimpy the shorts. I mean, Vig, it’d take you _ages_ to get into all the nooks and crannies of the Falcon, won’t it.’

‘Stop reading my mind,’ Viggo says laughingly. Eric doesn’t seem so horrified. Which is kinda his mistake because Dom then has to double his efforts.

‘So, while Viggo is polishing the front, on his knees and everything - puns intended, who might be working hard on the rear?’

His suicidal gaze swipes over his audience of three.

‘Bean, how about it?’

Sean chokes a bit on his pancake, and it’s possibly just because of that that his face turns red. 

‘C’mon, you secretly wanna feature in Eric’s wanking fantasies, don’t ya?’ Dom says, his grin so huge it is barely possibly for him to speak.

Sean coughs, swallows and shakes his head.

‘If you don’t watch it, mate, you’ll get a slap.’

Dom just laughs.

‘Me thinks the lady doth protest too much,’ he teases, then tilts his head and looks at Orlando.

‘Well, Lando, how -.’

‘Shut up, Dom,’ Orlando says without looking up from his military waffle project. 

Dom shuts up.

The silence around the wooden table could maybe be described as somewhat tense if it weren’t for Sean’s continued coughs and Eric slurping his coffee. They move on from there when the waitress brings more pancakes and Sean has a moment when he is undecided whether to flirt with her or the food. When asked to elaborate on their planned route for today, Dom and Orlando take turns in explaining how to get from JC to Shropshire. While Dom shows great enthusiasm for the incredible views and Titterstone Clee Hill in particular, Orlando talks about the consistency of tarmac which bores Viggo, Sean, and Dom but does cheer Eric up a considerable amount.

Eventually, Orlando urges Dom to eat up, so they can be on their way, and Sean, too, leaves to walk back to JC because he promised to join his remaining boarders in the Loo for some board games.

Eric and Viggo remain where they are, and Eric has a third cup of coffee and eats most of Viggo’s sausages while Viggo stares unseeingly at the crown of the oak tree, seemingly lost in thought. Under the table, Eric’s knee nudges Viggo’s.

‘All right?’ he asks with a smile. 

Viggo’s eyes focus on him and he grins.

‘There was a fit man from Victoria,’ he says, his voice somewhat singsongy to highlight the anapestic metre, ‘who loved his red car with euphoria. He was very brave if his Falcon was safe. Lord save him from phantasmagoria.’

Eric’s smile widens.

‘Phantasmagoria?’

Viggo lifts a shoulder. 

‘”Nightmares” doesn’t rhyme with euphoria.’

Eric presses his knee a bit harder against Viggo’s and finds the pressure returned.

‘No, it doesn’t,’ he agrees. ‘And “fit”?’

Viggo shrugs.

‘Course.’

Eric licks sausage grease from his lips slow enough for Viggo to laugh.

***

(by noalinnea)

[17/7/2017]

Gerry [3:53 a.m.]: Dear Dominic, Florida is treating me well and I have already acquired a bit of a tan. Pity you couldn’t come.  
Gerry [3:54 a.m.]: Gotta go, the beach is calling. Ta ta!  
West [7:11 a.m.]: Try not to get eaten by an alligator, yeah?  
   
Richard [7:15 a.m.]: Still a bit bummed about missing you on Saturday because of work.  
Richard [7:16 a.m.]: Are you still free an evening this week by any chance?  
Richard [7:16 a.m.]: I’m only working days and would be happy to cook you dinner.  
Richard [7:18 a.m.]: Or if you want we could meet up on Saturday or Sunday and go for a drive?  
Richard [7.20 a.m.]: Up to the coast or the National Park.  
Richard [7:20 a.m.]: Or anywhere, really.  
Richard [7:25 a.m.]: Dinner and sex is fine, too, though, if that’s what you prefer.  
Orlando [8:27 a.m.]: Don't worry about Saturday. Spur of the moment  
Orlando [8:28 a.m.]: I'm busy today, tomorrow evening and Thursday, but Wednesday or Friday would work, Sat/Sun too  
Orlando [8:43 a.m.]: I'm good with both, dinner or a drive  
   
Beth [9:17 a.m.]: Back from my run. Join me for a swim?  
Karl [9:19 a.m.]: Join me in bed?  
   
Jane Thelwell [11:03 a.m.]: (media content is this message)  
Gerry [11:14 a.m.]: Awww, isn’t he cute?  
Gerry 11:14 a.m.]: Give him a hug and promise to take good care of him, he must miss me!  
   
Bernard [11:26 a.m.]: Have you seen my keys, love?  
Marianne [11:39 a.m.]: Did you check if you left them in the lock again?  
   
Dom [12:17 p.m.]: Where the hell are you?  
Orlando [12:19 p.m.]: I’m where you’re supposed to be  
Orlando [12:19 p.m.]: Tell me you didn’t miss that turn  
   
Matt [12:58 p.m.]: Lunch is ready! :)  
Kiele [1:01 p.m.]: On my way!  
   
Cate [2:48 p.m.]: I know whom you’re doing this summer…  
Richard [3:52 p.m.]: I have no idea what you’re talking about, woman.  
   
Eric [4:17 p.m.]: I can see straight up your nose from here  
Eric [4:17 p.m.]: It’s a hairy jungle  
Eric [4:18 p.m.]: Maybe you should trim it  
Viggo [4:19 p.m.]: Nah.  
Viggo [4:19 p.m.]: I use them to tickle your feet at night.  
Eric [4:20 p.m.]: That’s unsanitary  
Eric [4:21 p.m.]: Also, sex?  
Viggo [4:22 p.m.]: All the talk about nose hair turned you on?  
Viggo [4:22 p.m.]: Sure.  
Viggo [4:24 p.m.]: Let me just put away the phone.  
   
Nancy Islington [3:39 p.m.]: Hi mr B  
Nancy Islington [3:39 p.m.]: I kinda forgot my potted plant in the common room  
Nancy Islington [3:40 p.m.]: can u water it  
Sean [4:21 p.m.]: Sure, Nancy, don’t worry about it.  
Sean [4:23 p.m.]: Have a good time with your parents now!  
   
Miranda [7:24 p.m.]: What are you doing for breakfast tomorrow? Can I join?  
Miranda [7:25 p.m.]: Also I might need help with a particularly heavy box…  
Viggo [7:28 p.m.]: Waffles yesterday, waffles today… so: French toast!  
Viggo [7:28 p.m.]: You and your box are more than welcome!  
Viggo [7:30 p.m.]: (Eric says hi and after nine)  
   
Sean [8:56 p.m.]: Are you back? Fancy a beer?  
Orlando [8:57 p.m.]: Sure. Be right over.  
   
Viggo [11:53 p.m.]: Nightnight!  
Eric [11:53 p.m.]: You’re insane

 

Gerry [1:11 a.m.]: Also, it appears as if I'm in California. Which appears to better for surfing. But no crocodiles  
Gerry [1:12 a.m.]: Not sure I haven't been duped.

***

West’s youngest daughter - he has four, from two different women - is what one would call susceptible to suggestion. So, when her three sisters - two of them half-sisters, not that either of them makes that distinction, considering their mothers are best friends - tell her that Dad is in Witness Protection, she believes it.

In her defense, she has good reasons for doing so - she only gets to see him over the holidays and he is pretty shifty (she compared him to other people’s dads).

So, when he starts acting extra shifty, keeps checking his phone and looking over his shoulder every ten seconds when they stroll along Santa Barbara’s streets in search for a new bikini for her? She asks him about it.

He listens, then laughs, then says no, she’s got it wrong. He’s really a spy on a secret mission.

She is inclined to believe that. He does have a British accent. And spies do have those, don’t they?

***

19/7/2017  
Hello Mr B.,

this is the postcard I promised you! Like I told you, I’m on holiday in DUBAAAI with Liv and her family. We’ve already been to the big hotel that looks like an apple slice - you can get tours through it and they explain all kinds of stuff about aerodynamics and ~~shit~~ stuff. I’ve been with Liv and with Jake, her dad, cause her brother didn’t want to come cause it’s ‘fancy crap’. We also went quadding in the desert and that was BRILL and I rode a camel and it stepped on Danny’s foot. (Danny is Liv’s brother and Jake’s husband, yeah?). Anyway, you said we didn’t get homework for a week if we wrote you a postcard and put some historical fact on it: So, this is your postcard and the fact is that in the HUGE mall we went to this morning, they had GOLDEN faucets in the Ladies. Like, proper GOLD. 

Anyway, see you in four weeks!   
Mo   
_and Liv (the faucets were’t proper Gold)_

***

The school grounds are pretty much deserted on Friday. About 1/6th of the boarders are still technically there, nearly all of them jumped at the chance to go to Blackpool Pleasure Beach with Matt and Kiele. Orlando and Sean left on their bikes around eight, Viggo and Eric in Eric’s any-boy’s-wet-dream even earlier. Emma supposes she could actually frolic around naked on the front lawn now if she wanted to.

She doesn’t. Instead she spends pretty much all of the day on her balcony. The weather is fantastic, she is reading three books at the same time (a period drama set in the 1600s, a biography of a paleontologist, and a collection of Dada poetry) and having white wine, a milkshake, and banana-cherry juice. It is like having a date with three interesting, if peculiar men without even having to change out of her yoga pants.

Around five Orlando and Sean return from their trip and stop right under her balcony. Taking off their helmets, they sport matching matted hair and matching grins, but of course it’s only Sean who has traces of what Emma supposes might be mustard on the t-shirt underneath his leather jacket. Orlando asks about her day, and she tells him a bit about the [Mary Anning biography](https://www.amazon.com/Curious-Bones-Anning-Paleontology-Scientists/dp/1883846935) she has been reading, prompting Sean to repeat ‘she sells sea shells by the sea shore’ until Orlando threatens to run him off the road next time. When she enquires about their trip in turn, it is Sean who rattles off what could very well be every turn and exit on their [trip to Hawes and Middleton-in-Teeside](http://www.bestbikingroads.com/motorcycle-roads/motorbike-rides-in-united-kingdom-/north-east-england-/a-day-out--_496ab24.html) without Orlando even correcting him once. They then disagree on what the best thing about their trip was - the curry in Hawes (Sean), the group of five female bikers they met in Hawes (also Sean) or Sean’s amazing ability to flirt with all five of them at once (Orlando) - before bidding her adieu and absolutely not racing each other to the garage because God forbid Christopher heard about that.

The bus from Blackpool spits out 43 sweaty and happy children in front of the main building at 8:07 p.m.. Several of Emma’s children bought [beach towels with the attractions of Blackpool](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/236x/85/e7/9c/85e79c45e3b2fa69aba1ae98973a4774--holiday-resort-blackpool.jpg) printed onto them, most of them wearing them like superheroes’ capes as they wave up at her before disappearing in the house. Matt and Kiele walk past and wave, Kiele with a makeshift cape as well and Matt eating cotton candy, one arm around Kiele’s shoulder. Emma briefly leaves her balcony to check in with her returned charges and hear all the stories about vomiting on the Ferris Wheel.

She fills up on white wine and has just settled into her wicker chair once more when a V8 engine announces the return of the head of Arnor House and his chauffeur. The Falcon stops under her balcony and both Viggo and Eric get out. Eric walks around his car to join Viggo in leaning against the door facing Austen House, but he gets distracted by the left indicator. He crouches next to it on the gravel as Emma tells Viggo about Dada poetry, and Viggo surprises her by quoting a German poem about [the pug of a gentleman only identified as Otto](https://www.lyrikline.org/de/gedichte/ottos-mops-1232#.WXJOQ9Tyg2w) with utter seriousness. When Emma is done laughing, she asks how their day was to which they reply ‘perfect’ at exactly the same time. Viggo tells her about them spending the better part of the day in a hospital in Sheffield where Eric donated stem cells, then Eric does join Viggo leaning against his Falcon and very enthusiastically tells her about a [Porsche 944](https://web.archive.org/web/20120321035827/http://www.ericbana-archives.com/Eric-Hobbies-PorcheChallenge-01.html) for sale they just finished looking at.

When they have left - Viggo only half-jokingly fussing over Eric, Eric laughing it off and still refusing to give him the car keys, Emma finishes the chapter of her period drama before she turns in as well.

***

These are the 22 reasons why Eric spends 22 hours of July, 22nd in bed:

1 - He wakes up around nine with Viggo draped horizontally atop of him, so that they form a human cross. He isn’t sure whether Viggo did that for religious reasons or because he just sleep-migrated again, but he just falls asleep again without shifting.

2 - He has emergency breakfast in bed. Well, a Kitkat that he bought on the road yesterday, forgot and put on the nightstand.

3 - He has real breakfast in bed because Viggo has been to the village, fetching all kinds of things from the bakery, when Eric wakes up again.

4 - Viggo gets crumbs all over the bed but claims they just vacuum away easily. Eric says he won’t get up for that, though. To prove he is right, Viggo vacuums around and over Eric.

5 - He spends twenty minutes on the phone with his sister in Australia. It is a good thing he is lying down for that, previous occasions have proven that.

6 - He has WiFi in his bed. There really is no need to get up if he wants to read up on Porsche 944s on the internet.

7 - Sex. Instigated by Eric because fast cars are a serious turn on.

8 - Sleep after sex. Eric’s favourite.

9 - Viggo decides that it’s really enough if one of them gets up and washes off sweat and whatever else. Together they then count as an averagely smelling human being. Eric thinks that that theory only holds true if Viggo, immediately after showering, rubs himself all over Eric. Viggo, still in the shower, offers to do just that. Eric, still in bed, thinks that their relationship is a bit weird.

10 - Sex. Instigated by Viggo rubbing himself against Eric. That was somewhat predictable.

11 - See No.8

12 - Cricket on tape. Miranda said the other day that watching cricket on tape to her seemed about as useful as watching a Russian shopping channel in the middle of the night. Eric is still trying to get Viggo to officially declare that Arnor House is now at war with Erebor Manor.

13 - That Netflix show about Escobar that Viggo is addicted to. Usually they watch that in Viggo’s living room, but Eric actually prefers to do it in bed. He always gets a cramp in his neck from napping on Viggo’s couch.

14 - Eric is pretty tired. The nice nurse at Sheffield hospital said that that was normal, after the stem cell donation procedure. When Eric jawns, Viggo reminds him of what the nice nurse said. Every time. Thing is, it’s Saturday during the summer holidays. Eric is probably just his normal amount of tired.

15 - Lunch in bed. No crumbs this time. And, surprisingly, no tomato sauce on the sheets either. The bedroom reeks of garlic afterwards because Viggo thinks that spaghetti without ten tons of garlic are not even worth getting out of bed for.

16 - Food Coma. Eric’s second favourite version of sleep.

17 - They plan their trip through central Greece. Logically, Eric’s bed is by far a superiour location for that. They do have to scoot quite far back towards the headboard, so they can lay out the completely unfolded map, though.

18 - Viggo explains him at length why they just _have_ to visit the monasteries of Meteora. He digresses maybe a little bit. After fifteen minutes, Eric kind of falls asleep.

19 - Miranda comes to visit. Eric makes a point out of not getting out of bed for people who disrespect cricket. She can be glad that he is wearing pants, really.

20 - Gerry includes him in a whatsapp chat group that also has Jane Thelwell from the Pony Club and - for some reason - Dom West in it. Gerry’s continued adventures in California nearly cause Eric to fall out of bed, however, because he is laughing so hard.

21 - Dinner in bed. Admittedly, the pizza delivery man is a bit flabbergasted when he finds the door to Eric’s flat open and Eric gratefully receives his pizza in bed.

22 - Viggo tells him that the nice nurse in Sheffield told him to get plenty of rest. Then he, Viggo, yawns. Eric suggests they should just turn in early.

***

Cate and Sean will leave for Rome tomorrow, on Monday. 

Cate spends her Sunday morning shipping her husband and her boys off to what her eldest called ‘super manly Robin Hood Camp’ (they want to learn how to shoot bows and arrows somewhere in Scotland where, Cate hopes, no live targets are anywhere within reaching distance), then she irons a couple of dresses, packs her suitcase and puts it by the side of the door, checks her travel documents and is done with all preparations by noon.

Sean plays football with some of Palm House’s, Arnor House’s, and Wellesley Hall’s remaining boarders. Then he has a second breakfast in the village. Then he and Viggo do some gardening and praise each other regarding their skills as tree-planters until Viggo gets dragged away by Miranda. Then he reads a bit in the Mary Anning biography Emma let him borrow which leads to him inviting himself over to tea with her to discuss it. It is about half past eight when he remembers that he is supposed to be at York Airport tomorrow at eight a.m. He randomly stuffs items of clothing in what he _thinks_ is his suitcase (and not one of his kids’) while he calls Orlando to enquire whether or not he needs a passport for Italy.

***

  
  
  


***

 

Koala Lumpur, 25/7/2017  
Dear Viggo,

Rhona just whatsapped me that the idiots from Wellesley said that no one sends as many postcards to their head of house as they do and that that’s proof of why WH rules? Not really sure if I got that completely right but Mr B. has all of his minions write postcards with some historical facts on them or something? Anyway, just so you know, Julian just put it on Facebook and I tweeted that we need to DESTRROOOY THOSE HEATHENS AT WH and everyone should send you postcards with churches on them. I kinda didn’t say that this was meant only for the people living at Arnor House and I have 2363 followers on Twitter, so this is just a headsup that you might get a few postcards from random strangers in the next couple of weeks, okay?  
ARNOR HOUSE RULES! GREETINGS FROM  
Kilian O’Riley and _Julian McDonagh_

***

It’s Sean’s and Cate’s third day in Rome, and around ten in the morning they decide that it is time to stop correcting people when they falsely assume that they are married. They are a bit surprised by that, to be honest; usually they don’t hold out so long. When they were in Portugal the year before last they got called Mr and Mrs ten times before the end of their first day. They do a lot of stuff on holidays which, to the less observant bystander, might work as indicators that they are in a (possibly very unhealthy and rather weird) relationship. Stuff like...

... Sean’s need to sit in a corner café and try his best to eat one of each flavour of gelato the parlour has to offer. Given the fact that some places have over 100 different flavours, it is an ambitious goal. Cate, of course, takes bets from the people sitting at the other tables.

... Cate having to eat food that Sean ordered for her. This doesn’t sound too adventurous (or stupid), but Sean’s ability to pronounce any words that aren’t English is absolutely horrible. So when he orders coda alla vaccinara, the chances are VERY slim that Cate will actually receive oxtail in the style of the slaughterhouse butcher.

...Sean flirting with Roman women whilst smelling horribly of garlic. Cate then flirting with the same women whilst also smelling horribly of garlic.

...Cate pretending to be French for most of the day. This is particularly amusing when they aren’t in France and when they ask random bystanders to translate things Cate says to Sean who doesn’t speak a single word of French.

...Sean’s tendency to stand rooted to the spot for an hour at some random spot in, say, the Colosseum and stare at a stone that, to anyone else, would just seem like any other. Sean, though, keeps making noises that are the historian’s intellectual counterpiece to orgasmic groans. Cate is standing next to him, so he doesn’t get arrested for public indecency or something.

... Cate never being able to resist the urge to re-enact scenes depicted on famous paintings while Sean takes pictures. They get away with a lot in the Palazzo dei Conservatori, but that is mostly because this time Sean can convince her to not remove several items of clothing for more reenactment-accuracy.

...... Playing chicken with Spaghetti. It is kind of like eating spaghetti the way the Lady and the Tramp from the Disney movie eat them - each starting at one end and meeting in the middle. Only that it doesn’t end in them kissing but them sitting leaned over the table with their noses almost touching and their bit of spaghetti between their lips, waiting for the other one to give in (and bite down) first. Their record is at five minutes, thirty seconds.

Andrew and the boys and Ashley will join them next week and expect them to get all their idiotic Sean-and-Cate stuff out of the way until then.

***

‘Viggo,’ Eric says as he walks into his bathroom, ‘I just realized something horrible.’

Viggo emerges from the tub, his hair plastered to his face and his green swimming goggles. He spits out water.

‘What?’ 

Eric tilts his head, previous pain momentarily forgotten.

‘Why do you do that? Every time, Viggo. Ew.’

Viggo submerges again, and Eric isn’t stupid, when Viggo reappears, he already has Viggo’s bathrobe raised in front of him to catch the water spat at him.

‘What, this?’ Viggo asks once Eric lowered his terry-cloth shield again. ‘I don’t see your problem. It’s not like that time in the Pacific when you swallowed ten gallons of fish pee.’

‘I don’t like you very much, you know,’ Eric remarks matter-of-factly as he shudders, though that is more due to the fact that he nearly drowned that one time in the Pacific, not that the water he inadvertently inhaled must have contained fish excrement. 

‘Did you come in here to inform me that you take offense in me drinking my own bathwater?’ Viggo asks.

Eric pulls a face.

‘Now you’re drinking it, too? I thought you were just trying to do an impression of a Roman water fountain.’

‘Why would I?’

‘Because you’re you?’

Viggo shrugs, the water ripples slightly.

‘Fair point,’ he concedes and wipes his wet hair out of his face before he leans back against the tub, looking up at Eric. ‘What’s vexing you, mate?’

Eric carelessly drops the robe into the sink and sits down on the toilet lid.

‘So, I was thinking about our trip and -,’ he starts, but temporarily doesn’t get any further because a huge megawatt grin appears on Viggo’s face at the mere mentioning in response. 

‘I love you,’ Eric says, and honestly, it’s not really fair that sometimes that feeling punches him in the face like it was Mohamed Ali, dancing away cackling while Eric goes down and goes down hard.

‘Eric?’ Viggo says after a moment. ‘You were thinking about our trip and... What?’

‘What?’ Eric starts, picking himself off from the metaphorical floor of his feelings (or whatever, he isn’t good with metaphors). ‘Oh, right, yes, so I was thinking about Greece -’

‘And it’s gonna be spectacular,’ Viggo interrupts him (of course he does). Water splashes over the rim of the tub with his enthusiasm. ‘The monasteries of Meteora alone, this is going to be unbelievably amazing. I’ve always wanted to see them.’

‘I know.’

‘I can’t believe we’ve never been there before.’

‘Well, there was this one time when we wanted to go over Easter,’ Eric reminds him, ‘and you decided you’d rather spend the Easter holidays on the can with the runs.’

‘And you wonder why I spit water at you.’

‘I don’t, really,’ Eric says wistfully. ‘God, that was a horrible week. I felt so bad for you.’

‘I felt bad for me as well,’ Viggo says. ‘So we at least got that in common. But anyway, you were saying about our glorious trip to Greece?’

‘I realized that we’re flying over there. And that that means we won’t be taking the Falcon.’

He makes sure to put enough despair into his voice for Viggo to at least try to hide his amusement. He fails miserably, of course, but at least he tries.

‘Yeah, it won’t fit into our hand luggage, that’s right.’

Eric leans back and by that accidentally flushes the toilet by leaning against the button. He lets out a dramatic sigh parallel to the sound of water cascading down.

Viggo makes a sound of commiseration before disappearing again. His knees stick out of the surface in the middle. When he reappears, he doesn’t spit at Eric again. Instead he pushes his swimming goggles up into his hair.

‘Eric?’

‘Hm?’

‘When you booked our flight?’

‘Yeah?’

‘Remember I booked the hotels for the first couple of nights?’

‘Yeah. Still not sure that that artsy hotel in Athens was such a great choice, mate. The murals will give us nightmares.’

Viggo laughs.

‘Maybe so. But think about what brilliant entries that’ll give us for our dream journals.’

Eric snorts and this time he uses his shoulder blade to deliberately press the flush. Viggo grins in response but then dims it down a bit again.

‘So, you booked the flight and I booked the hotel,’ he summed up. ‘Which of us booked us a car?’

Eric’s eyes widen comically.

‘Fuck.’

Viggo shrugs, feigning nonchalance.

‘We could just buy a donkey,’ he says casually and cackles when Eric is out of the bathroom and on his way to his laptop to load Europcar in 0.2 seconds.

***

Venice, July, 28th 2017

Dear Orlando,

I found this wonderful historical postcard on a flea market in Venice. I am sure you appreciate that I am recycling and writing atop the original message that was fairly unreadable anyway. From what Cate and I gathered it was a love note from 1976, and we both found that very poetic since that was the year in which you were conceived. As for Venice, I am positive you would absolutely LOVE it here. It is filled with tourists and particularly newly weds and it reeks of fish something fierce. Historical fun fact about Venice: In the 14th to 16th century they had no less that 26 outbreaks of the plague here. Cate also insists that I write that there is excellent Venetian wine here, but that is not a historical fact. So, I reckon the current count must be 4237 to 4334? My lead is growing.  
Greetings  
Sean _and Cate_

***

Eric sleepwalks/-flies his way to Greece. To be honest, Viggo worries about that sometimes, the degree to which Eric is able to walk and talk and lift heavy luggage without being fully awake. Because Eric is as gullible as a Labrador puppy, only a lot bigger. But what does size help against kidnapping if all you gotta do is tell him 'get in that car, mate' and that's what he does? 

The only good thing about it, Viggo supposes, is that Eric stopped wandering off ever since Viggo spend a rather frantic 50 minutes searching for him at Honolulu airport once, only to find him in a souvenir shop about to buy a necklace made out of shrimp.

So, on this Saturday morning - well, night really - Viggo puts Eric into the back of the taxi that picks them up at 4.15 a.m.. On their way to Leeds Airport he is also the one who chats with the grumpy Turkish taxi driver about cyclists (the driver thinks they should all be shot and Viggo of course agrees wholeheartedly) while Eric snores quite loudly on the backseat.

At Leeds Airport Viggo has Eric guard their luggage while finding out where to check in and where to board. He comes back to find Eric has been the opposite of kidnapped - there is a five year old sitting on Viggo's holdall, mimicking Eric, seated on his own backpacker's backpack, perfectly. Viggo's arrival is met by and owlish blink from Eric and the kid bursting into tears as he realises the silent sleepy man is not his dad but some stranger. Viggo's next quarter of an hour - he deposits Eric at the end of the ridiculously long queue in front of check in - is filled with trying to locate the kid's real dad while making sure he is not arrested by airport security for kidnapping. Curiously enough he spots the boy's dad, indeed surprisingly similar to Eric even if definitely more awake (possibly due to the temporary loss of his offspring), only ten people ahead of them at the check in counter. 

This family happily reunited, Viggo returns to his family of one a couple of people further down, only to have Eric's stomach grumble loudly at his arrival. Viggo solves that problem right after he got them through the security check - Eric once again proving that he is a very docile sleepwalker as he allows the security guard to pretty much cope a feel despite Viggo quite loudly clearing his throat. He feeds Eric three very overpriced sandwiches, the ten quid he pays for them very much worth the sounds Eric makes while wolfing them down which are not exactly fit for public consumption.

Their plane is on time and Eric is possibly the passenger least appreciative of the window seat he has been allocated. He is asleep again even before their plane takes off at 6:15 a.m., his head pillowed on Viggo's shoulder. The flight attendant that serves coffee a bit later finds that cute enough apparently that she gives Viggo an extra handful of individually wrapped cookies; the young man sitting next to Viggo looks a bit jealous both of the free biscuits as well as Eric's head's resting place that is definitely more comfortable than his only half inflated neck pillow.

Viggo spends the flight mostly looking at the small monitor over their heads that show the plane's progress, looking out the window at cloud formations that make the sky look like the coast of the Antarctica. He thinks of their upcoming road trip and bets with himself that it will be Eric who breaks the no-farting-in-the-rental rule even before they even left Attica. He rests his hand on Eric's thigh and when that stirs Eric from his slumber enough to start talking, he has a chat with him about cricket which Eric is obviously dreaming about.

They land safely in Athens, Viggo gets their bags (and one of an equally tiny and fat man who looks like a walking cube which incidentally is reflected in the shape of his suitcase), and when he returns to the bench where he left Eric, he finds him dozing again, his head now slumped onto the shoulder of a rather petrified looking woman. Viggo relieved her of him, shoves his backpack onto Eric's shoulders and guides him out through the entrance into the area where he imagines Europcar to have their booth.

It doesn't surprise Viggo that it is the slight jingle of car keys being placed in his hands that finally wakes Eric.

His yawn is huge enough to make the Europcar woman lose her grasp of the English language that had only been very loose to begin with. Eric stretches his arms over his head, repeats the giant yawn and as he lowers his arms again, the left comes to rest on Viggo's shoulders. He smacks his lips and smiles at Viggo.

'We there yet, mate?' he asks.

***

'Lando, who do you think will win in a fight, Bean or a tiger?'

Orlando squeezes his eyes shut. But when he opens them, he doesn't wake up in his bed but in Dom's living room and Dom is still sitting in his armchair, the joint in his hand. Not a nightmare then.

'Shut up, Dom,' Orlando says.

'Lando, come on,' Dom replies in a whiny noise that he used for maximum annoyance ever since first form. Even back then, Orlando wished someone would give him detention.

'Laaando.'

'I'mma give you detention if you don't zip it.'

Dom cackles and really who is Orlando kidding, Dom isn't afraid of him when he is completely drug-free (side effect from boarding with someone for years and having seen them a. naked, b. falling off the lower roof of Wellesley Hall, c. crying due to 107 (Orlando counted) mosquito bites. Thankfully not all at the same time). So of course Dom isn't afraid of him when completely high on a Sunday afternoon.

'Lando, come on,' Dom predictably insists. He also refuses to hand the joint back to Orlando. 'Bean or a tiger?'

'Sean,' Orlando replies whilst still holding out his hand.

Dom makes a very overdone face of surprise - really, like an actor trying to reach the semi-blinds in the last row.

'What? Why?'

'Tiger would try to sneak up on him, Sean'd bellow "Oi!" into the undergrowth, tiger would die of a heart attack,' Orlando argues. 'Now give me the fucking joint.'

Obviously impressed by Orlando's supreme reasoning, Dom does as asked, but only after he took another hit. After exhaling very slowly his voice sounds like a broken bicycle pump.

'All right. How about Bean versus...,' he starts, thinks, beams. 'A saber tooth tiger? And a mammoth?'

Dom pushes his lower jaw forward as far as it will go. Orlando snickers. That has little to do with Dom's ability to unhinge his jaw and all with the mental image of Sean with a club dressed as a caveman. Orlando should maybe stop smoking after this drag.

***

Eric and Viggo spent their first night in Athens, then drove up to Delphi on Sunday where Viggo stood in the sun for a good long time, contemplating the oracle and Apoll’s questionable guidance while Eric got sunburned. Monday has the ruins of Thebes on their itinerary (well, Viggo’s paper napkin that he got in the hotel in Athens). Monday is also the day when Eric and Viggo unanimously decide that suitcases and backpacks are for sissies and just empty the contents of the luggage into the (surprisingly big) Fiat Panda. It is surprisingly liberating. Like walking around without underwear, Viggo remarks wistfully, while they drive over the bridge into Euboea. Eric nearly runs them into the Euripus straight because he is snorting with laughter.

***

Eight phone calls on 1/8/2017:

1 - Sean calls Orlando around two in the afternoon to check in. He is not drunk. Okay, maybe a bit tipsy, but they had lunch outside and just one glass of wine in this heat instantly goes to your head. Orlando takes the piss, obviously, when Sean starts giggling before he can control himself as Orlando tells him about Omar O’Finegals mishap with the toilet seat yesterday. The rest of the phone conversation, Sean stands in the shade of a column in the entrance of Circus Maximus and listens to Orlando’s report.

2 - West calls Gerry when West is in the supermarket and Gerry is trying to stand upright on a surfboard. Gerry’s surfing instructor is not impressed that a. Gerry takes the call and b. falls off his board. Thankfully they are still practicing on the beach.

3 - Beth calls Karl from about a kilometre ahead of him during their run. Their phone conversation lasts for one minute in which Boris is barking, Karl is breathing heavily and cursing, and Beth is laughing.

4 - From her seat in the back, Liv calls Mo in the second Jeep during their superquick and fun drive through the desert to enquire why she has stopped replying to her whatsapps three minutes ago. She is greeted by Mo screeching hysterically into her ear and by Ryan, Liv’s sorta-stepdad (it’s complicated), making sounds that sound a lot like vomitting in the background.

5 - Kiele calls Matt from somewhere in York, telling him - when he answers with his mouth almost too full with cake to even pronounce ‘yeah’ - with excitement that she just got them tickets for Milan. Matt is a cop at heart and a sceptic, even if Kiele is usually the exception, so he asks whether it’s for the opera or soccer - two things pretty much equally low on Matt’s scale.

6 - Viggo calls Eric from the passenger seat on their rental car which is parked on a narrow road somewhere on Euboea. Eric, leaned so far over the exposed engine of the car that it looks like it is trying to swallow him, answers after the third ring with a ‘yes, mate?’.

7 - Miranda calls John only a little panicked while she tries to turn off the water in Erebor Manor’s basement. John very calmly informs her to get used to the first floor’s showers flooding regularly.

8 - Orlando calls Sean around half past eight in the evening, UTC, to rant at him about today’s developments on Emmerdale. Sean decides to have another wine afterwards to wash down the latest tragedies in the Dales.

***

‘Hey, mate, did you know -,’ Eric starts, but gazing at the nightly sky is a bit distracting, so his sentence trails off in the middle.

‘Nah, probably not,’ Viggo replies after a beat. He turns onto his side on his beach towel - to be honest, that towel is so tiny, the more accurate phrasing would be ‘accidentally rolls off it into the sand’ - and stops staring up in favour of looking at Eric.

After a moment, Eric turns his head, and despite the questionable lighting, he can see Viggo’s teeth flashing as he grins.

‘What?’ Eric asks.

‘What “what”?’ Viggo asks back reasonably. ‘You were saying?’

As a response (or not, depends on how you see it), Eric returns to gazing at the minimal sprinkling of stars above them. Viggo picks up a piece of dried reed that lies in the sand and uses it to poke Eric’s shoulder. It’s like slotting a slightly scratchy record back into the right groove, Eric picks up right where he left off.

‘- that we’ll be here for the Peleides?’

Viggo hums.

‘Nice guys, are they?’ he asks, grins when Eric snorts and then nearly chokes on that snort.

‘Asshole,’ Eric replies, his voice raspy, since it is clearly Viggo’s fault that he can’t breathe properly when lying down. He kicks Viggo’s shin with his naked and very sandy foot. Viggo flicks his piece of reel at him, and it grazes Eric’s nose. Eric tosses a handful of sand in his general direction, spraying himself with it as much as Viggo.

‘They aren’t people, they are meteorites,’ he explains right after. ‘And in second week of August, there’s a lot of them coming down all at the same time.’

Viggo hums and flops back onto his back. Eric briefly glances his way, when the light next to him changes, and the moon is now rivalled by the light of Viggo’s mobile phone. Such a romantic, is Viggo. He doesn’t, however, start playing [’Timber Tennis’](http://www.techradar.com/news/phone-and-communications/mobile-phones/60-best-free-android-games-2013-687718) which he usually does, like the eight year old he is. Eric looks back up and listens to the sound of the waves not ten feet from his feet, and to the sound of some rather noisy Russian teenagers night-bathing.

‘Mate, did you know -’ Viggo starts after a couple of minutes and stops mid-sentence, pretty much because he is an asshole.

‘Yeah, probably do,’ Eric drawls, not laughing.

‘Asshole.’

This time Eric does chuckle and he doesn’t even choke on it. Much lighter than before, he nudges Viggo’s calf with his foot, prompting him.

‘C’mon, tell me.’

Viggo huffs for a moment, as if he is considering that, but then of course complies.

‘So, shooting stars, hm? According to that Greek astronomer Ptolemy, from time to time the Gods peer down at the earth, yeah? Because they are curious or because they are bored or because -’

‘There’s no cricket on.’

‘Yeah, or because of that. So anyway, according to this website, they look down from between the spheres, and as they do, sometimes stars, which they hold in their hands, slip out of their grasp and that’s where we’re getting shooting stars from. And since they are looking down at us anyway, when you wish on a shooting star, the Gods are more receptive of that wish.’

Eric hums.

‘I’m just glad the Gods aren’t holding handgranades then.’

Viggo’s cackling laughter causes the Russian youths to falls silent for a surprised second, before they resume their splashing water games in the dark.

‘Marvelous thing,’ Eric says after a moment.

Viggo shifts once more next to him, brushing sand from his t-shirt’s sleeve.

‘What, the universe?’

Eric hums.

‘The internet.’

***

3/8/2017 or as the yanks would write it 8/3/2017 - funny people here

Dear Viggo.

A seagull shat on my shoulder this morning. I thought of you. Not because I reckon you’re shit. Because there’s a superstition about that, isn’t there? And you’re in the business of teaching about stuff like that?  
Okay, I am sitting here with Dom West and he is being rude and reading my postcard to you (okay, I read it out to him, same difference), and he says I shouldn’t talk about religion as superstition because - and I quote him here - ‘there are still nincompoops in this world who believe that nonsense’. First of all, I am catholic and my mother would tan my hide if I would quit church or God, so I wasn’t saying that you’re a nincompoop or any other kind of poop, really. Second of all, I still have no idea about whether birdshit on my favourite Hawaiian shirt now means I will be lucky in bed for the next year or something. West says not, but he has already proven himself to be a heathen, so I am not listening to him. So, can you please get back to me regarding that. Third of all, postcards are a shitty form of communication, I already ran out of space. Greetings from the Westcoast!  
Gerry ~~and West~~ (West made me scratch that out. So rude.)

***

Viggo comes back to the hotel in Southern Boeotia they booked themselves into with about his weight in groceries dangling from his arms. The hotel is probably best described as the perfect equivalent to the car they rented - somewhat dented, designed by someone obviously colour blind, way too small for Eric, but inadvertantly charming somehow anyway. In any case, when Viggo shoulders the door to their room open, he does it with some care to not accidentally unhinge the door, like Eric did yesterday. Then he stops in the small pathway between bath and beds and looks at Eric.

‘Mate,’ he says after a moment of Eric not acknowledging his presence because he is too busy with his current task, ‘honestly, I don’t believe you when you say you’re from Australia.’

Eric turns, a slightly dangerous endeavour, considering he is standing on their room’s only (and quite wonky) chair.

‘You spent Christmas there,’ he says in that tone of voice he uses when he wakes Viggo from kafkaesk dreams. ‘With my whole family. In my family’s hotel. For decades.’

Viggo makes a dismissive waving gesture and the discoball-sized melon in his left hand bangs against the wall. Some plaster rains from the ceiling.

‘That doesn’t prove anything.’

Eric now turns fully on his chair, still unwilling to descend, though interested in the contents of Viggo’s bags, judging from the thirsty look in his eyes.

‘Did you get beer?’ he asks. ‘And sunscreen?’

Viggo huffs and makes the (short) way to the beds, dropping the bags onto Eric’s before flopping down on the other.

‘Did I get beer and sunscreen?’ he repeats, sounding offended. ‘The audacity.’

‘Does that mean yes?’ Eric asks anyway, ‘because if you forgot, I will have to come down and kick you.’

Viggo props himself up on his elbows so he can look at Eric from a slightly less weird angle.

‘Which brings me back to the obvious fact that you can’t possibly be from Down Under.’

‘You’ve seen my passport,’ Eric reasons, like that is gonna help with Viggo. ‘Yesterday, when we checked in.’

‘Yeah,’ Viggo agrees, contemplates that moment for a second. ‘You know, I am pretty sure that the hotel’s proprietor is planning on stealing our identities. Have you seen the way she scrutinized our passports?’

‘That’s cause we looked shady as fuck,’ Eric says and again, just because he is perfectly right doesn’t mean Viggo has to acknowledge that. ‘Me with engine grease all over my face, you, well, looking like you do.’

Viggo takes a beer can from the bag closest to him and tosses it in the general direction of Eric’s head. Eric catches it mid-air easily, but it causes the chair to sway dangerously for an instant. Opening the intended assault weapon and slurping off the beer that instantly bubbles out, Eric says against the can’s rim,

‘Besides, who’d want to steal _our_ identities? What would they want to do with them?’

‘I don’t know,’ Viggo says, lying back on the bed and looking at the ceiling. There is an ominous wet spot right above Eric’s bed. ‘What do people do with stolen identities? Rob banks, scam insurances, pretend they are from Australia, even though they aren’t.’

Eric laughs and turns his back to Viggo again.

‘Now I am not only not from Australia but also not Eric Bana?’

‘Well, how would I know?’ Viggo replies with the appropriate drama in his voice. ‘For all I know your real name could be Romulus Gaita and you could be from Romania.’

Eric eats another cracker.

‘My dad’s originally from Croatia,’ he then says. ‘That’s as close to Romania as I can do you, mate.’a

Viggo knows that of course, has known it literally for decades. But he still sits up and makes a loud ‘haHA’ noise as if he just caught Eric out. Eric, in turn, nearly falls of his chair.

‘Stop that, damnit,’ he complains. ‘Or I’ll fall off!’

‘You should’ve thought about that before,’ Viggo reasons reasonably.

Without turning, Eric gives him the finger.

‘I am standing up here,’ he says, very slowly, so even a dim-witted person could follow, even takes a sip of beer, so Viggo has time to process before he continues, ‘because that is the closest I can get to this crappy air con vent.’

The rattling sound of the air con stutters at exactly that moment as if to prove Eric’s point, and the curls on Eric’s head momentarily stop jittering in the gentle breeze.

‘I know that, mate,’ Viggo replies in exactly the same tempo, because duh, why else would Eric be standing on a chair in the corner instead of sitting outside and enjoying the marvelous view of the Aegean Sea?

‘Which is why I repeat: There is no way you can be from the hottest continent on the planet.’

***

‘That is possibly the least diplomatic I’ve ever seen you, West. That poor taxi driver was on the verge of crying.’

‘I can relate.’

‘No reason to let it out on him. It’s not his fault that you agreed to go surfing with me.’

‘No, I am certain that it’s yours.’

‘I am certain that it is because you are rather weak-minded and very impressionable. You can be talked into pretty much anything. You could very well be a member of a cult. Are you? A member of a cult?’

‘No.’

‘You sure, West? Not one of those born again types or anything? Or a member of, what’s that funny group again that believes in saviours coming in spaceships?’

‘Trekkies?’

‘No, you bampot. I reckon it is Scietologists.’

‘I’m not one of those either.’

‘Anyroad. My point is -’

‘You have a point? Like, ever?’

‘This is my point, West. You could be more diplomatic from time to time. I mean, I’ve been there when you told Christopher you’d rather scoop your own brain out with a spoon than listen to him a second longer.’

‘I never said that, Gerry.’

‘Pretty sure you did.’

‘Very sure I didn’t.’

‘Aye, you may have a point. He’d have kicked you out if you had, and where would you be then, a hobo living under the bridge.’

‘Yes, that is precisely what would have happened and not at all you listening to too many Red Hot Chilli Peppers songs. You are probably the most impressionable being I have ever encountered. And I am including Miranda’s ducks.’

‘That’s not very nice of you, West. You’re being mean. I’m gonna tell on you.’

‘To whom? Christopher?’

‘No, your ex-wife. Wives.’

‘I wasn’t married to either of them.’

‘And you fathered two children with each of them? How very uncatholic of you. Are you catholic by any chance?’

‘No. Silent member of the Church of Enland.’

‘Good.’

‘Why?’

‘I can’t show an interest in your faith and beliefs and whatnot? I am insulted, West, insulted. Of course I care about your immortal soul.’

‘I never doubted that. You are a very caring friend and not at all a Scottish weirdo. My question was more about the reason to why you’re asking this _now_?’

‘Well, I heard that there are great white sharks where we’re gonna go and surf, didn’t I?’

‘Great white - excuse me?!’

***

Sunday, August 6th is a day that Gerry spends largely afraid of West. Yes, that is not an error the omniscient narrator made here - Gerry is afraid of West, not the other way around. Not that there are plenty of occasions during which West hasn’t been afraid (or the West equivalent of it which possibly is more in the neighborhood of ‘mildly baffled’ than the wasteland of ‘utterly petrified’) of Gerry. Numerous of them instantly spring to mind, like that one time where West found Gerry in his bed (not during the time he made the error of judgement to live in JC, but in his previous flat that accidentally burned down) whilst wearing what West thinks must have been a giant peacock costume. Or that time Gerry trapped West in his lab to hold a 45 minutes speech about that scary fish in the Amazon river that swims up your urinary tract when you pee. Or pretty much every time Gerry refers to West as his best mate, which is accurate, yes, but that doesn’t make it less scary. Well, for both parties involved, probably.

Anyway.

So, Sunday, August 6th. Gerry spends the majority of the day sitting next to West and looking at him like one looks at a wild animal in the zoo that is doing funny things, like giant Gorillas who poke worms out of specially prepared watermelons. Silverback West took Gerry with him to visit his family of four teenage gorillas and two ex-girlfriends who not only are best friends but also have the same first name. So, Gerry sits in the giant living room of Sheryl (No 1, Gerry thinks, her daughters look older than the other two), around her giant table with all the other gorillas and there are stacks and stacks of papers, leaflets and whathaveyou spread out on the table. 

Gerry watches in amazement how all seven Wests cut out coupons for discounts - buy three shampoos, get one free, 15% off dairy products, save 5 $ - and sort them in neat stacks whilst noting them down on very complicated looking charts. Gerry himself has been sidebarred by West Jr, the youngest (about five, Gerry reckons, but already with the no-nonsense-look of her biological dad) and demoted to a mere spectator status because ‘oh my God, you’re doing it wrong, give me your scissors right now’.

So, Gerry watches. And really, it’s exactly how Dian Fossey must’ve felt in the jungle.

***

Eric doesn't get postcards from current or former pupils, but Viggo does and plenty of them.

There is this one exchange student for example, a bloke from the Netherlands who graduated some time in the early 2000s. Eric has no recollection of what he looks like, but he knows he's the guy who regularly sends cards from pretty random locations - like St. Petersburg in one week, followed by a dude ranch in New Mexico the next. All of them have the obligatory postcard picture on one side (some impressive building at sunset or an unrealistically empty beach, a kitschy mountain range), and on the other, there is always just Viggo's name and address and 'Greetings, Peer'. No text, no hello, nothing but that. Like Peer reckons that the picture on the other side conveys the scenery better than words anyway and the fact that he went to the trouble of buying a stamp and finding a post-box proved his friendship well enough.

It quietly amused Eric for years until he fished the latest one (New Zealand, urgh) out of the messy stack of mail at the staff room's entrance. He mentioned it to Gerry during break, and Gerry explained to him that this was just the custom way in Holland (and then went off on a weird tangent about tulips). Eric likes his explanation better.

Eric thinks of whatshisface Peer when they leave Boeotia in the early morning hours of August, 7th to drive up North, towards Meteora. 

For months, every time either of them or someone else only so much as mentioned Greece, Viggo wouldn't shut up about the monasteries of Meteora and Orlando would roll his eyes and leave the room. It was so predictable that people (well, Bernard and Cate) would deliberately steer the conversation to Greece's latest financial crisis or, say, Lord Byron's involvement in the Greek struggle for independence if they wanted to get rid off Orlando.

Because Viggo has been completely unable (and unwilling) to tone down his enthusiasm about the lonely enclaves high up on giant boulders even the littlest bit; 20 minute odes in prose being pretty standard.

As they drive into Thessaly and the landscape changes, Eric already knows all about the 24 different monasteries, knows which ones are still lived in by monks, which ones used nets as the only way to get up there until well into the 1970s, which one of them is said to be build atop a dragon cave. Viggo already told him all about it over the last six months or so.

Today though? Eric used his three sentence working knowledge of Greek to get them breakfast and chatted about rugby whilst eating, comments on random oddities on the side of the road - like that orange market stall with one single misshapen orange on display -, sings along to some of the English songs on the radio. 

Viggo has yet to say a single word. He smiles and nods with a five seconds delay that tell Eric that he isn't really listening. He looks out the window of the car while his fingers toy with the brand new map in his lap until its edge is completely frayed.

Eric stops on the side of the deserted mountain road and pulls the map towards himself. When he made sure they are still on the right track, he looks up and finds Viggo watching him. That quiet anticipation, that steady reverence is still in his eyes as Viggo covers Eric's hand on the gear stick. 

***

Karl, Orlando, and their motorbikes will be off to the Czech Republic (yes, not Poland, the short explanation for that is Karl was in charge of planning and worked under the assumption they were one and the same until Orlando told him different) in a day. There is limited room for stuff when you're roadtripping on your motorbike; these are eight items that make the cut:

\- Fresh underwear

\- Roadmaps (of the Czech Republic)

\- A short series of treaties by Feuerbach

\- The latest Playboy with a bow tied around it

\- toothbrushes (two, though packed by the same person because he can really do without Karl always stinking of beer)

\- broad-spectrum antibiotics

\- duct tape (because someone watched too many crappy survival shows)

\- a bottle opener (because someone is too much of a pussy to open his beer with his teeth like proper blokes do it)

***

Nine things that happen over the course of August, 9th.

1 - In Wuppertal, Germany, Craig has to share the monorail with about 5000 Japanese tourists. He was just trying to get from his parents’ house to the next Edeka; he has no idea what _they_ are doing there.

2 - Somewhere else in Germany, Orlando and Karl stop at a petrol station for a pee break. Karl then hovers close to Orlando’s motorbike, looking like a shifty thug who robs people for a living (or for fun), until Orlando gives him a Euro to buy himself a Mars bar.

3 - In a hotel, nestled close to the impressive mountains of Meteora, Eric dreams that Viggo decided that from this day on, he will only enter and leave Arnor house [the way the monks did it in Varlaam monastery](http://www.monastiria.gr/wp/wp-content/uploads/2012/06/dixty_varlaam.jpg). It’s not a particularly good dream. People, Eric thinks, should not be let down from great heights in nets. Especially when people equals Viggo.

4 - Somewhere in Italy, on a very family friendly beach, Cate’s eldest decides that he is the sole ruler of the airmattress that is shaped like a water melon slice and very pointedly shoves his siblings into the sea. Cate pretends she is asleep on her sunbed.

5 - In Wellesley Hall, Sean spends a rather rainy morning sorting through approximately 50 board games in the gaming room in the basement. His good work is somewhat hindered by three second formers who “help” by ripping out the boxes from the shelves and combining pieces from different sets to come up with new games.

6 - In Erebor Manor, Miranda learns that Marsters, the janitor, whom she has gotten to know pretty well over the last few weeks because Erebor Manor is pretty much a ruin, writes and publishes fantasy novels under a pseudonym. Sadly, she has not yet found out under which.

7 - In a monastery that has been build in the middle ages and lived in since then, Viggo has a very animated conversation about bulldozers with a monk. At least Eric _thinks_ it is about bulldozers. He maybe shouldn’t have fallen asleep during the ‘Greek for Beginners’ tapes from the 1980s that Viggo made them listen to quite as often as he did.

8 - Somewhere else-else in Germany, at another petrol station (this time actually for petrol), Karl has to valiantly rescue Orlando who has gotten trapped in the very small aisle of the ARAL shop. There is a woman blocking the waay out and she has a giant diaper bag and what Orlando calls ‘the world’s fucking ugliest baby’ while the woman is still within earshot. When Karl is on holiday with Orlando, he, Karl, is never called a rude disgusting horrible excuse for a human being. Karl loves going on holiday with Orlando.

9 - In Wellesley Hall, Sean has left the basement just for a quick snack. When he returns, the three aforementioned pupils have taken apart the ceiling lamp. The smallest of them is wearing the lampshade as a helmet as he defends himself against what Sean supposes is dragons. Sean decides he could go for another sarnie and closes the door again.

***

Contrary to popular belief, Bernard is neither senile nor whacky. He is, however, a bit of a bastard which is why he actively encourages both of the aforementioned characterizations of him. It makes people underestimate him which is always a plus. 

In class, this is helpful because his pupils never interrupt him when he is not exactly taking the shortest route to Shakespeare's sonnets but takes them on a week-long detour to courtly love in the middle ages. If something of the concept of gallantry sticks, then good, but Bernard mostly does it to cast a questionable light on Paul Bettany's sweetheart Chaucer. 

To be thought weird and random also comes with the advantage that his pupils - thinking he is well-meaning or not giving a shit either way - mostly don't even bother questioning the task he gives them, however outlandish they may seem.

For instance, not one of the kids in his A-level, his first or his fourth form protested or even arched an eyebrow when, two weeks before the end of the school year, he handed out empty postcards. Most of them were slightly frayed around the edges and smelled of cold cigarette smoke because Bernard found them in a battered box in at the local Oxfam shop.

'Look here,' Bernard said. 'I want you all to take an imaginary journey into another life. Picture yourself, say, - show me your card real quick, Jona, oh this is Mount Vesuvius! Marvellous view from up there, I hear - as a scientist studying earthquakes or - what does your show, Natasha? Is that the Pacific? - a captain aboard a cruise ship. Now write a card to your former schoolmaster and tell him about your life and your work. Carry on.'

Not one asked what this had to to with the subjunctive / 'The perks of being a wallflower' / Obama Care (the actual topics Bernard should have been teaching), and Bernard ended up with a bit over sixty postcards.

Half of them have already made it into the stack of mail of Wellesley Hall when the summer holidays are half over. Lorry drivers, archaeologists, beach bar proprietors, and even one doctor at an elephant hospital in Northern Thailand - all wrote interesting tidbits about their completely made-up lives, then Bernard added Sean's address to them and posted them.

Sean is increasingly baffled by this, but Bernard really can't take his colleague's delicate sensibilities into consideration. He bet 100 quid with Cate that, at the start of the new term, Wellesley Hall will have ended up with more postcards than Arnor House.

Bernard certainly doesn't leave the outcome of that bet to chance. He is tipping the scale with both hands. He is not fortune's fool.

***  
 **To Mr Sean Bean  
Wellesley Hall  
Jackson College  
Yorkshire**

11/8/2017

Dear former teacher **Sean Bean** ,

This is Huck Finn and I bet you thought you’d never here from me again. In case you forgot: You were my teacher and I am not a made-up person or anything, After I left JC I became a fisherman maybe you already knew that? I started with small fish but I worked my way up to really big fish like sharks and whales. But whales are not really fish because they give birth to little baby whales. Sometimes when I kill a whale I am sad because of that. The life of a fisherman isn’t easy. I also have to get up very early because the fish are early risers and and the early bird catches the ~~worm~~ fish. Did you know that by 1930 hightech whaling fleets were killing some 50,000 whales worldwide every year? That is a lot of whales. Sometime I name the big ones that I am after. Right now I am chasing one that is called Moby Cock. I hope I catch it soon. Otherwise it gets boring.  
Much love, your former pupil Huck Finn

***

[12/8/17, 11:55 p.m.]

“Hi, this is Orlando Bloom. I can't take your call right now, but you can leave a message after the tone, and I will get back to you as soon as I can. If it's urgent, contact Jackson College under 01904 667700. If it's life or death, you might consider calling the police or the fire brigade instead.”

What in Christ's name have you done to Karl, Lando? I just got a string of completely random whatsapps from him and then Beth called me and yelled at me about, I dunno, curses and how she would break up with Karl if he was covered in warts only because you try to fight your mid-life crisis in Eastern Europe. What the hell, Lando? - Oh, this is Sean by the way; hi. Sorry. Well, I reckon you try getting yelled at by Beth and keep your calm enough to leave a message the right way. By the way, Marsha Silverton arrived this afternoon, she did come by train after all since her parents couldn't drop her off. So, she's safely back in Mirkwood. I thought, since you worry, you might want to know. You see I keep your house in order in your absence, all I ask from you in return is to bring back Karl in the same state of sanity that he left with, all right? Oh and speaking of questionable sanity, Bernie insisted that I'd tell you to tell Karl that Boris ate all of Marianne's rhubarb cake yesterday and Karl now owes him a new hallway carpet. Other than that, no news from here. Drive safe and bring back some beer, yeah?

***

[13/8/17, 9:05 a.m.]

“Hi, this is the voicemail of Sean Bean. Feel free to leave a message after the beep or call again later, in case of emergency, please call Jackson College under 01904 667700.”

Hello Sean, this is Orlando. See, this is how you start one of these. I just wanted to return the favour by calling you, and I hope that my call woke you up and while I am leaving you this message, you’re trying to figure out how your phone works. No need to try and deny it; I’ve seen you right after waking up plenty of times, you are the kind of bloke to throw a ringing mobile out of the window from sheer frustration. That would have been funnier if it hadn’t been my phone. Anyway, I have a list of things, so feel free to take notes, if that helps. First of all, cheers for the update on Marsha. Second of, I’m not sure why I was supposed to tell Karl that thing with Boris. You do know that he skypes with that dog, right? Thirdly, I’m still on the fence regarding most of the beers I’ve tried so far. And yeah, the one’s that _I_ tried; because Karl just sticks to one and I don’t even think it’s because he deemed it particularly tasty, it’s just that he is lazy as fuck. The chances of me bringing you anything back are so-so. Fourth, you wanted me to remind you to renew your Sky subscription, so this is me doing just that. And lastly, if you happen to talk to Beth would you please explain to her that I wasn’t trying to put a spell on her boyfriend, even though he absolutely deserved to be cursed. All I said was that he’d probably get a serious allergic reaction if he decided to bathe in a river that smelled like it wasn’t filled with water but with cow piss. That Karl took that as a dare and not only bathed in there but also drank from it, can hardly be considered my fault. No spell casting or cursing involved whatsoever, if we’re not counting me calling Karl a muppet in three different languages. I gotta hang up now, I was on my way to the nearest pharmacy - you may guess why - and I’m standing in the entrance right now.

***

‘Howdy, West.’

‘Oh God.’

‘No, it’s Gerry.’

‘Yes, I know that. First of all, I have caller ID, second of all, you’re pretty much the only person who has this number.’

‘Aw.’

‘Because you coerced me into giving it to you.’

‘Oh, aye, I totally did, didn’t I. I was just standing there, having a smoke, no, I mean silently coercing you when you showed up in that sort of sneaky looming sort of way you have and made me save your number in my mobile.’

‘Whatever. My initial reaction wasn’t owed to the fact that you called, it was in response to your greeting. And it is, I might add, in continued response to that absolutely horrific attempt at a Texan drawl you’re torturing my ears with right now.’

‘Don’t be stupid, West, I always sound like this.’

‘No, you normally sound like you’re best mates with the monster of Loch Ness. Now you sound like you have a chewing gum factory in your mouth and your vocal cords run on slow motion.’

‘Do you have a notebook, West? I mean I picture you sitting there in a dark corner of your hotel room or your bathtub, scribbling ideas for outlandish descriptions into your tiny black notebook for future use.’

‘Please don’t picture me sitting in my bathtub, Gerry.’

‘Too late. I bet you have a lot of rubber ducks, don’t you? Don’t answer that, don’t ruin my mental image of you surrounded by little ducklings.’

‘I think the Texan sun is not doing you any good, to be honest. Why are you even in Texas?’

‘What kind of question is that, West? You told me to go!’

‘Yes, I told you to go. I didn’t tell you to go _to Texas_.’

‘I got what you meant.’

‘I highly doubt that.’

‘Anyroad, I just got onto one of those big busses and when I couldn’t sit any longer - turns out, I can sit for a long time, my arse seems to be made for sitting and I was getting food from this nice lass sitting next to me - I got off the bus and then I was in Texas.’

‘You shouldn’t take food from strangers.’

‘Nonsense, as if Grace would’ve poisoned me. You’d like her. Though I don’t think the feeling would be mutual. She doesn’t seem impressed by you.’

‘Which has all to do with me and nothing at all with the cartoon character you undoubtedly described.’

‘Excuse you, I am a biology teacher, I know how to describe shit objectively. And it even reflects in your Indian, err sorry, Native American name.’

‘Just a quick interjection here for future reference: I didn’t ask.’

‘Grace gave you the perfect Native American name. And it’s not “Scary Eyes Who Blows Shit Up”.’

‘It isn’t?’

‘No. But I’m not gonna tell you, since you’re obviously not interested.’

‘Which I’m not. Because I am an adult and not a five year old playing Cowboys and Indians.’

‘You sound like Orlando. Err, I mean you sound like “Silently Judging Very Loudly”.’

‘I think that should’ve been “Loudly Judging Very Loudly”.’

‘No, and that’d make to easy to mix him up with “Bellows The House Down”.’

‘That’s Sean?’

‘Aye.’

‘Why not “Healing Couch” or “Mismatching Socks” or “Hungry Bear”?’

‘Wow, you’re good at this, West.’

‘I know you mean that as a compliment, but it makes me cry inside.’

‘We both know you’re lying, so I’m just gonna ignore that statement.’

‘So, you spent your entire Greyhound ride chatting with your Native American friend?’

‘Who?’

‘Grace, was it?’

‘Oh, she’s not Native American; she’s an exchange student from Birmingham. Why would you think that -? Oh, okay, I get it now. No, she’s loves Kevin Costner movies, and “Dances With Wolves” is her favourite. Which, really, is just a case of bad taste. Clearly the best Costner movie is “Waterworld”. - West? Hello? West? Did you seriously hang up on me?’

***

The original plan had been to stay in Meteora for two or three days and then drive further North, to Thessaloniki and on to Chalkidiki. Tuesday, 15th August is their seventh day in Meteora now, and Eric is pretty certain that they aren’t gonna leave tomorrow. But holidays aren’t for keeping schedules, and as long as Elena doesn’t kick them out of their room in her guest house, Eric is very fine with staying here indefinitely. 

Viggo is out pretty much all day - on Tuesday he climbs up to the Varlaam monastery, on Wednesday he visits the monks in Agiou Stefanou, on Thursday he spends all day in Agios Nikólaos, on Friday he makes it to the monastery of Rousánou, on Saturday he accidentally goes to Varlaam again, on Sunday he is in Megálao Metéoro, and on Monday he leaves particularly early for Agias Triádos. 

He comes back every evening - well almost every evening, Eric still hasn’t found out where exactly he slept the night from Thursday to Friday and would maybe have been worried if Viggo hadn’t sent him pictures of himself every hour or so - with a bottle of wine and conversational topics that have mostly very little to do with the monasteries or their history. On Wednesday they sit on their balcony with an incredibly stunning view of the mountains, and Viggo explains to Eric in detail how clever it is to make a mint from selling religious souvenirs like the nuns in Stefanou do it (‘We could do that in JC as well, mate. Shave off chips from the main building’s banister and sell them off as religious artefacts.’). On Monday he he lies next to Eric in bed, talking about James Bond movies, and only at the end of his very long speech about the superiority of Roger Moore he explains to Eric that Agias Triados was used as a set in ‘For your eyes only’. And for some reason all he talks about on Friday, when they have dinner in a neat little place in Kalambaka, is air conditioning in Malaysian office buildings. He’s random and distracted and extremely attentive and focussed at the same time, alternating between very loud and very quiet; so basically he is full-on, nothing held back Viggo.

Eric? He saves a dog’s life when he goes rock climbing, plays a vital role in reuniting Yiannis (the owner of the hotel adjacent to Hotel Elena) with his estranged daughter, repairs the power steering of a stranded bus filled with elderly German ladies and the bedframe in their room after it collapsed for no apparent reason.

He’ll tell Viggo about it once they are on a beach on Chalkidiki.

***

Boris is a very happy dog. His pack used to consist of one person, and that is good because it is easy to look out for one person. Boris was good at that and Karl never got lost. Karl sometimes trusts Boris with watching over Bloke Who Smells Of Minced Meat. He is not easy to look out for because he walks very slowly and gets turned around in the woods. Boris has to bark at him quite a lot, and sometimes he has to run back to the house Bloke Who Smells Of Minced Meat lives in to fetch his most important pack member who is called Marianne.

Karl and Boris adopted a new member to their pack. At first Boris was a bit skeptical because he already has a lot ~~on his plate~~ in his bowl with watching Karl and Football practice (he is in charge of watching the ball) and making sure Bloke Who Smells Of Minced Meat doesn't get lost too often.

But Beth is great. She smells of human sweat which is Boris's favourite smell in the whole world, and she rolls around the grass with him, and she helps with taking care of Karl by getting him food and rolling around the bed with him.

Karl is away with Growl right now, and that's okay because Boris is afraid of Growl and Boris is a big dog, so he figures everyone else in the world is afraid of Growl as well and they won't hurt Karl. Boris stays with Bloke Who Smells Of Minced Meat for a bit, but he is happy when Beth picks him up. Because Beth smells good and she loves Karl maybe as much as Boris does. She licks him almost as much as well.

***

Orlando returns from the trip to the Czech Republic with what he considers a little too detailed insight into Karl's and Beth's sex life and a lot too much knowledge about Karl's body's reaction to food poisoning (because Karl insists it was the kebab he ate, not his bath in cow-piss-river that made him vomit his guts out). He also returns with a newly discovered fondness of Pilsener and a renewed envy of German Autobahns.

Orlando returns to find quite a few of his kids back in Mirkwood House already, all of them reporting back to him that Sean wasn't a total disgrace in terms of substituting as head of house.

In the evening, Orlando makes himself a cup of tea in the common kitchen before he climbs the stairs to the library. He finds Marsha Silverton, Jeremy and Natasha Needham, Peter Colinsworth, Lionel Gaultier, and Maria Porter on the sofas and armchairs in the reading corner. At first they don't notice him because they are too engaged in their debate of whatever, and Orlando watches, smirking to himself when it quickly becomes clear that Jeremy, albeit by far the youngest of them, dominates the conversation.

'Oh, hi Mr Bloom,' Lionel finally greets him.

Instantly Natasha and Peter remove their sock-clad feet from the coffee table, and all five of the others repeat Lionel's greeting. Maria vacates the armchair and flops down half on top of a giggling Natasha when Orlando crosses the room.

Orlando sits down, noticing the deep frown that remains on Jeremy's forehead.

'Everything all right?' 

He receives four variations of 'Yeah, course', but Jeremy asks,

'Mr Bloom, have you heard what Arnor House and Wellesley Hall are doing?'

Natasha rolls her eyes at her little brother's question, but the others look at Orlando expectantly.

'Care to be a bit more specific?' Orlando asks back.

'They are having a competition,' Maria explains. 'Whichever house received the most postcards at the end of the holidays wins.'

'Have you heard about that?' Marsha asks.

Of course Orlando heard about that. He wrote Sean two cards out of Prague alone, though mostly so he could balance out the score a bit and to tell Sean about people dramatically throwing themselves out of windows.

'What about it?' 

'And Erebor Manor and Palm House,' Jeremy says instead of answering Orlando's question. 'They have, like, a rallye through the forest against one another next week, right?'

'To see who is best,' adds Natasha.

'What about it?' Orlando repeats.

Looks are exchanged. Possibly they are supposed to be conspiratorial but since senders and recipients are teenagers, it looks mostly awkward.

'We were wondering, Mr Bloom,' Marsha says, then seem to look for the rest of her sentence on the ceiling.

'Why don't we take part in something like that?' Jeremy finishes for her. 

'Like, ever?' adds his sister.

'To prove that we are superior?' adds Lionel, mouth twisting in irony but eyes serious.

All six look at Orlando. Orlando sips from his tea.

'Anyone able to remind me what Mendelsohn said about superiority?' he asks.

The question is directed at the older kids from his AS and A-level, but it's Marsha who replies.

'One must profit as much from the folly of others and of his own superiority as he can.'

'Which is totally my point,' Jeremy says with renewed fervor. 

'Yeah, but that's totally not what that means,' says Lionel. 'That's not about, like, rivalry, but about advancements in, like, science and stuff, right, Mr Bloom?'

Orlando doesn't answer because Maria is already weighing in, instantly opposed by Peter (no surprise there), and for the next couple of minutes they argue about not pulling punches in scientific discoveries (and about Peter, according to Maria and Natasha, deserving some punches to the face). Jeremy's eyes go back and forth between them like he was watching a particularly aggressive ping pong match. When the debate has momentarily died down (Maria and Lionel reached a truce and she and Natasha still agree on the size of Peter's punchability), Lionel looks at Orlando again.

'So, Mr Bloom, what are we gonna do about this competition thing?'

Orlando sips from his tea. 

'Nothing.' 

Six faces frown at him. Orlando sips from his tea.

'The Arnorians and Wellies want to waste the rest of their holidays writing silly postcards?' he says then. 'Erebor and Palm want to rob through the woods on their bellies?'

He pauses and raises a shoulder in a shrug.

'By all means, let them.'

He gets up from his armchair, but before he turns towards the door, he finishes with a minute smile,

'Somehow the poor mugs gotta suss out which house is JC's second best, don't they?'

***

Viggo and Eric stay for two nights in Thessaloniki. They get a room in a hostel in a somewhat shady neighborhood, and the sole reason for picking that one is that Eric found a step-by-step photo-story as to how to get there from the main station on the internet. Viggo points out to him that they are, in fact, in a car, and didn’t arrive by train, but Eric didn’t think that that was relevant information. He is very proud that both side mirrors are still (mostly) attached to their car when they park it in front of the hostel. 

The hostel itself is kind of decorated the way Sean dresses. One can’t help but ask a. who in their right mind did ever buy something like this, b. who in their right mind would combine things this way and c. where does it seem like someone tossed half of the matching clothes/furniture in the mid 80s and replaced them with stuff from the thrift store and d. what’s up with the ridiculous amount of corduroy? 

That is, at least, what Eric thinks while they wait for the receptionist. Viggo is preoccupied staring at the life sized icon of the Virgin Mary next to the staircase. 

Mary is sporting a slightly crooked mustache that someone made out of felt and stuck to the glass. It so far must have escaped the hostel’s proprietor’s attention. Viggo peels it off very carefully. 

‘One shouldn’t mock other people’s devotion,’ he says in that quiet voice of his. 

Then he sticks the felt mustache to his own upper lip.

***

On Sunday, August 20th, Gerry returns from his trip to the USA. He lands in Leeds and clears customs and is actually also a bit surprised that no one wanted to check his luggage for smuggled goods. That usually happens to him. 

He is possibly even more surprised to find Dom Monaghan waiting for him outside, in the middle of the line of chauffeurs from taxi and limousine firms waiting for their pick up. Only that Dom isn’t wearing a chauffeur’s uniform or a chauffeur’s hat but a band shirt from [Twisted Sister](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/originals/85/c4/89/85c4894d93da60e73ad3fbbaa7ccb6c9.jpg) and one half (the right) of his hair is shaved down to about 2 mm. 

Gerry waves, accidentally slapping a Chinese businesswoman in the face, and is about to enquire what Dom is doing there. But then Dom raises a sign, like one of those the fancy chauffeurs. Only that Dom’s doesn’t say “Luxury Limousine, York - Mr Gerard Butler” on it. Instead it reads “This is not Florida either, Crazy-Tartan-Arse”. 

And Gerry is so happy to be back home and to have mates who look out for him and make sure he doesn’t get lost (well, okay, maybe Dom isn’t the best choice for that. He once did get lost in the Pony.), that he very nearly cries. He is also very, very sad that he opted against wearing his kilt on the flight back, even though it would have been SO much more comfortable _and_ would have fitted so nicely with the whole theme of this welcome home.

***

On Monday, August 21st, Viggo and Eric return from their trip to Greece. As they wait to disembark their plane, Viggo tells Eric that he expects Eric’s baby to have found its way to Leeds on her own because she must miss Eric as bad as Eric missed her. On the other hand, maybe she wouldn't want to endure the horrible traffic chaos that surrounds Leeds Airport like a swarm of angry drunk bumblebees.

The old man in the row next to them smiles softly and remarks that he is sure that Eric’s wife will wait for him at the terminal. While Eric just stares at him in confusion, Viggo smiles at the man and says nah, Eric’s wife is a bit of a princess. Eric is offended on the Falcon’s behalf of course.

***

On Tuesday, August 22nd, Craig returns from his trip to Germany. He doesn’t quite make it to JC on that day, though. As he gets off the train in London, he happens to run into Cate. He literally runs into her since he is too busy checking his watch - and really, why does this happen every time he chooses to visit his parents that his eyes get somehow addicted to glancing at his watch every five seconds? - to watch where he is going.

Once he picked himself off the floor, he apologizes repeatedly. Cate lets him finish while sipping her wine (yes, of course she has a miniature bottle of wine with her and only Cate can drink straight from a bottle at a train station and still look dignified). Then she asks him whether he’d like to spend the day shopping with her. Craig doesn’t even need to think about it, in fact forgets to ask why Cate’s girlfriends abandoned her. 

He has an inkling as to why when she drags him to the third shop for vintage clothing from the 40s and 50s. Not that he minds, for one thing, he always wanted a fedora and for another, no one can wear bow ties as well as Cate.

*** 

On Wednesday, August 23rd, Sean returns from his holiday in Paris. Personally, he doesn’t think of it as a holiday - those have to be at least a week long to count - but he still prefers the term over what Viggo and Orlando called it (‘romantic getaway’ and ‘extended fuck-weekend’, respectively). He finds that Wellesley Hall hasn’t burned down in the meantime, even though quite a lot of his kids have returned already and the house mother mentions one smoking-in-the-room incident and Orlando reports two cases of ‘Wellies are absolute muppets these days, Sean, you need to teach your kids how to climb out of windows without falling into the rose bushes’.

Sean thinks about both for two seconds, then decides to ignore them both and takes himself and his good mood outside and to JC’s pond. He finds Gerry on the grass there, surrounded by a swarm of first years from several houses and Miranda’s ducks. Gerry takes one look at him, grins broadly and asks whether Ashley took the opportunity to propose to Sean in Paris. Sean doesn’t really have a chance to say no because the swarm of first formers instantly surrounds him and bugs him relentlessly about the details of a wedding that isn’t happening. Meanwhile, Gerry lies back on the lawn, laughing like the idiot he is while two of the ducks sit down on his stomach and his chest. 

Patiently, Sean waits until the excitement has worn off a bit, then he says sorry, but he isn’t really the marrying type. He does suspect, however, he continues, that Mr Butler is. He is, after all, dating a woman from the Pony Club and he, Sean suspects there will be white horses at the nuptials. Gerry’s eyes grow comically wide, but Bottrop and Buttercup make instant flight impossible. 

***

***

Bernard invites himself to Wellesley Hall for dinner. Well, for wine tasting. Well, for getting pissed really. It's not that he can't do that at home, even though Marianne hardly ever lets him get out the good stuff since, according to her, he can't tell a prize winning chateau whatever from wine in a box from Lidl. That of course is outrageous since clearly no one can and anyone who pretends to is just a pretentious ass.

Sean lets Bernard drink whichever wine he wants to as long as Bernard is the one bringing it. Sean also is an excellent conversationalist, especially when Bernard's Lidl wine has loosened his tongue some. In between hiccupping laughter he tells Bernard tales from his trip to Venice with Cate and how exactly Cate ended up in one of the canals. Sean claims it wasn't his fault, but ever since that infamous staff trip where they went canoeing on the Ouse and Sean plus paddle resulted in Orlando plus Ouse, Bernard makes sure he is always out of reaching distance of Sean when they are near any kind of water.

It is a very pleasant evening all around, and Bernard ends up tipsy and Sean piss poor drunk and asleep on The Couch. 

This is what Bernard has banked on. Very quietly he leaves Sean to his dreams about football, Napoleon, and busty women and sneaks into the kitchen. On the table stands a wicket basket filled with Sean's messy collection of mail. Bernard of course ignores invoices and possible love letters, in fact he is not interested in the existing content at all, except for the number of postcards. Reaching inside his jacket, he looks over his shoulder as if someone (Viggo) might jump out from behind the fridge and shout 'ahaa' accusingly, and from it he produces a small stack of postcards. They are from the pile generously provided by his fourth formers and now addressed to Sean. 

Very sneakily, Bernard shoves them under the pile of mail in the basket before fleeing the crime scene.

***

Viggo finds Eric on the lawn behind Arnor House. The air is balmy, and the sky is the darkest of blue. Eric is busy pulling out grass blades with his naked toes and only looks at Viggo when Viggo plops down on the ancient fold-up lawnchair next to him and it collapses under him. Eric snickers. Viggo kicks his foot, then brushes himself off with rather limited success. The grass is damp from a shower earlier and he will have stains on his jeans. Then, a little more carefully this time, he sits down once more. 

Eric holds out a can of Coke to him, his own opened in his other hand. Viggo takes it but shakes his head.

‘What happened to the Retsina we brought from Thessaloniki?’

Eric makes a vague gesture at the building behind them.

‘Don’t know about you, but with all your kids back, maybe it’s not the most brilliant strategy to get pissed in public.’

Viggo pulls a face but opens his fizzy drink.

‘I wasn’t suggesting it we’d drink it straight from the bottle, like we did on the beach. I’d have fetched glasses.’

Eric snickers at that. Viggo leans down, nearly overbalances again, rips off some grass and throws it at Eric’s head. Most of it sticks to Eric’s hair who doesn’t bother removing it. 

A mid-sized horde of second formers stampedes over the lawn. The one in front, Calvin Robson, carries a football, holding it like a rugby ball as he is trying to get away from the rest. In his flight he nearly falls over Eric’s outstretched legs and just a last minute jump prevents a fall. Viggo’s mid-level ‘hey’ of reprimand slows them down maybe for a second before they round the shrubbery and are out of sight.

Eric snickers again. Viggo doesn’t kick him or throw something at him. Instead he holds out his can, so Eric can touch it with his own in a toast.

‘To another year, mate, hm?’

***

[28/8/17, 4:15 p.m.]

“Hi, this is the voicemail of Sean Bean. Feel free to leave a message after the beep or call again later, in case of emergency, please call Jackson College under 01904 667700.”

‘Sean, for fuck’s sake, where are you? Half of your Wellies are out on the back lawn and got a hold of the hose and turning the whole area into a fucking swampland. I told them to quit it and why on earth they thought this was acceptable behaviour, and they actually claimed that you allowed them to do this. Because you won some stupid bet against Viggo. The hell, Sean? Seriously. Call me back. I need to yell at you in fucking person. - Oh, also, Karl’s coming over to Mirkwood around eight, we’re gonna watch Bullit. If you want to come, bring your own beer.’

***

[29/8/17, 2:15 a.m.]

“Hi, this is Orlando Bloom. I can't take your call right now, but you can leave a message after the tone, and I will get back to you as soon as I can. If it's urgent, contact Jackson College under 01904 667700. If it's life or death, you might consider calling the police or the fire brigade instead.”

‘Hey Lando, this is Karl. Calling you to tell ya I dropped Sean off at Wellesley’s. Fucker managed to fall asleep on me while we were walking. Claimed he could just as well sleep in the rose bushes and waxed on some poetry bull about roses and thorns and whatever. Next time, mate, if you wanna make sure that he gets home all right? Don’t let him drink that much beer. Or bring him yourself. Oh, that’s right, you couldn’t, because what was that, I think you said you couldn’t feel your legs anymore? Bunch of fucking lightweights, the both of you. Anyway, I decided to crash at Sean’s. Boris is already asleep on The Couch and there’s no need to wake him. Need to be back here in a few hours anyway, right? So, see you at brekkies tomorrow, err later today.’

***

On Wednesday, school starts again at Jackson College after six weeks of summer holidays. There is a lot of excited squeeing from dayers and boarders alike, a lot of exasperation from the teaching staff (okay, that’s not really true, 87% of the exasperation is hogged by Christopher and 65% of those are focussed on West and the fact that he isn’t actually so much _here_ ), a lot of unnecessary trampling up and down the halls and stairways, a lot of your usual first day back stuff.

Also, in the staff room there is cake, only a little less excited squeeing, and a short performance of sirtaki dancing. 

If you happen to be new here - and it doesn’t even matter whether you’re a teacher or a pupil -, you will probably find this quite a bit overwhelming. You might compare it to the twilight zone. Or the result of an accidental trip in the TARDIS.

If you happen to be new here - and it doesn’t even matter whether you’re a teacher or a pupil -, you will probably do what you’ve always done on the first day of school. Here is how the six heads of house started their first regular period in varying forms in 17/18:

‘Welcome to Jackson High! I know there are a lot of first impressions doing your head in right now, aren’t there? So, I brought a little friend of mine with me today. Why don’t you all say hi to Cricketta?’

‘So, guys, Rome was sacked by the vandals in 455, and I reckon they didn’t just do it for the ice cream, though you get fantastic ice cream there, trust me. Who can beat that with a fact from his own holidays, eh? A point for every historically accurate I can’t disprove. Go on then!’

‘Rupert, can you turn out the lights, please? You don’t need any pens, you can put your markers down, Vicky. Just look at the photos and let them take you on a bit of a journey to the place of the suspended rocks.’ 

‘It is remarkable how many misconceptions there are about life in the developing world and I think that that knowledge gap has done a lot to contribute to the imbalance quite frankly. So I suggest we do something to educate ourselves some this year, what do you say?’

‘Right. In the 18th century, David Hume criticized teleological arguments for religion. Hume claimed that natural explanations for the order in the order were reasonable. We’ll get back to that when we’re dissecting the design argument. - You must have a developed a remarkable memory over the holidays, Victoria, considering you’re not writing any of this down.’

‘Now, I don’t know about you guys, but the weather is far too nice to be trapped in this stuffy bio lab. Come on, follow me outside, we’ll see if we can’t find any frogs in the pond. - No crocodiles, you don’t even need to ask, Patrick.’

***

It’s been three days, and to be honest, Bradley already regrets this decision and possibly all decisions he ever made in his life that lead up to this; his being here and everything. 

Jackson College was... different when he went here. Surprisingly that doesn’t include the teaching staff, that seems to have remained the same. Back when Bradley and his roommate had this theory that Mr Lee cryofreezes them over the weekends and after work and whatnot, so it would make sense that they are pretty well preserved. 

But Bradley is very sure that the pupils have changed. Surely they can’t have been as weirdly random and accidentally rude as the bunch of little bugs that he has in his first form and he is very certain that his fourth form deliberately locked him out of his classroom, those assholes - and oh my God, it has taken all of three days and he already turned into a grumpy old man, what is happening to him.

‘You all right there, mate?’

Bradley removes his forehead from the wall he was leaning against. Not even in the copying room you have a moment of peace and quiet to bemoan your horrible life choices.

‘Of course, yes, thank you,’ says Bradley, ‘Mr Bean, err, Sean.’

Mr Bean, err Sean leans against the doorframe, his tea mug (apparently Mr Lee’s cryofreezing the china as well - this mug, with Napoleon’s face on it? Mr Bean brought that to class with him when Bradley was in second form) cradled to his chest. He tilts his head to the side.

‘Just made the acquaintance of Y4B?’ he asks.

Bradley nods, the skin of his forehead slightly chafed from the rough wall.

Bradley makes a sound that is supposed to convey he isn’t scared or doubting his choice of profession. Maybe it is a good thing that he decided against becoming an actor, though. He doesn’t sound convincing. Mr Bloom err Orlando pushes past Sean with three books under his arms and makes a beeline for the copying machine.

‘Bunch of little bloody hooligans,’ Sean says in a belated contemplative response to his own enquiry. He sounds fond.

‘Who?’ Mr Bloom, err Orlando asks whilst typing probably 1000 copies into the machine’s display.

‘Y4B,’ Sean says.

Orlando hits the ‘copy’ button and turns around to give Sean a look of utter condescension. Bradley notes that he may officially be Orlando’s colleague now, but that doesn’t mean that his look is any less intimidating. Sean dips his biscuit into his tea.

‘They barricaded Gerry in his bio lab last year,’ he says, chewing.

Orlando critically inspects the first photocopy the machine spits out.

‘Was that before or after they tied him to a stake and set fire to his hair?’ he asks with so much sarcasm that Bradley is surprised the room can contain it.

Sean laughs and pushes himself away from the doorframe. 

‘They’re not that bad, really,’ he says to Bradley with a smile before turning away. ‘Come with us to the Pony tonight, and we’ll give you some pointers.’

Orlando picks up his copies and his books.

‘We’re using the royal “we” again, aren’t we,’ he says to Sean. ‘Cause I’m not coming to the Pony tonight.’

The two of them leave the room together.

‘Got a date?’ Bradley hears Sean asking, but before Orlando can reply, he adds, ‘And please, a simple yes or no will suffice, I am not asking for details, Lando.’

Orlando’s low chuckle is followed by something else, but they are too far away already for Bradley to make out exactly what he is saying.

Bradley? He decides that he can spend a little more time with his forehead leaned against the wall of the copying room.

***

It’s Saturday afternoon, and outside the Arnorians seem to be at war with some other house. Eric hasn’t really checked nor does he really care, at least not until the yelling becomes screeching or the calls for an ambulance get louder. Right now it’s more football stadium atmosphere, so he supposes, they’re all right. The reason why the noise is impossible to ignore is because Eric had to open every window in his rooms to get rid of the smell of fresh paint.

He hands one of the two bottles of beer he just got from the kitchen to Viggo, then sits down on the floor next to him, their backs against the couch. He looks at what Viggo has been working on since the early morning hours.

‘Vig?’ he says after a while.

Viggo hums, eyes on the wall opposite of them. Eric knocks his knee lightly against Viggo’s, so Viggo looks at him instead.

‘Are you gonna tell me why there is a mural on my living room wall?’ Eric asks.

‘You don’t like it?’ Viggo asks. He is grinning broadly, the question a joke obviously. Eric makes a show of pulling a face and lifting a shoulder.

‘It’s all right, I suppose.’

Now Viggo knocks his knee against Eric’s.

‘It’s fantastic, and you know it.’

Eric slouches down a little more, his head now resting against the upholstery.

‘I’m not questioning the execution. Nor am I questioning the motif.’

Viggo hums.

‘And why would you? You look great in spandex.’

Eric tilts his head and regards the picture.

‘Agree to disagree. I like that I can apparently fly, at least.’ He looks at Viggo, then at the picture of Viggo on the wall. ‘I never really got the whole Rapunzel story. The bit with the hair? I mean, you do look... Interesting but it’s more the Rasta look you got going there.’

He looks back at real life Viggo, with considerably shorter hair and a considerably bigger shit-eating grin. Viggo rests his lower arm on Eric’s shoulder, acrylic paint in all colours sticking the hairs on it together.

‘Viggo?’ Eric asks after a moment.

Viggo hums.

‘You could’ve used a canvas,’ Eric says. ‘Instead of painting it directly on the wall.’

Viggo huffs, like such contemplations are beneath him.

‘Didn’t have one big enough.’

Eric hums. Viggo knocks his knee against Eric’s again.

‘I can paint it over, if you want.’

Eric turns his head, places a kiss on Viggo’s arm. His upper lip sticks a little to the royal blue that hasn’t really had time to dry properly yet.

‘All the walls in the house, if you want, mate.’

***

(written by noalinnea)

Eric will never grow tired of this, he is convinced about it, of waking up to Viggo covering his naked body with kisses and small, gentle touches. It’s a process, a ritual that can take hours, Viggo and his all-encompassing attention to detail, and Eric is not required to be awake through all of it. And that’s pleasant- to drift in and out of sleep on a Sunday morning with Viggo right there, Viggo all over him, his smell, his warmth, his slow caresses. Sometimes he murmurs something under his breath, words Eric never can make out, sometimes he hums to himself, the melody fragmented by the kisses he places on Eric’s skin.  
Viggo’s not always still there when he wakes up, sometimes his thoughts stray and with them his body, he then gets up to make coffee, go to the loo or answer the door, once he has walked off with Sean right in the middle of things. But usually he sees this through, and Eric wakes up to Viggo blanketing him, his tongue tracing the shell of his ear, or to the feeling of his hand stroking down his side or up the inside of his thighs. Or he wakes up to the clicking of a camera, there probably is a series of macro shots of every single hair on Eric’s body somewhere on one of Viggo’s hard drives.  
Sometimes all of this leads to sex that is just as unhurried and gentle, with Viggo behind him, pushing into him slowly, slowly, almost dreamily, whispering nonsense into his ear, patiently coaxing his orgasm out of him, and a second one, if he’s in the particular mood, Eric has no idea how he does it, how he keeps going, keeps going while Eric spends, gets soft, gets hard again, comes again, Viggo’s hips never still for a second of it.  
Other times, it leads to a blowjob of the same speed, and Viggo’s wicked tongue keeps him dangling on the edge forever, he keeps slowing down when Eric needs him to speed up, keeps pulling away to grin at him when he shows signs of impatience. Eric is not too proud to beg then, although it doesn't help, but Viggo likes the sound of it, he knows that. And he tries to be patient, really tries to, because he knows that it’ll be worth it, it'll be worth it when Viggo shifts between his legs so that he can take him in deeper, let him slide all the way into his throat, and Eric marvels at that, too, it's impossibly deep and so tight, so perfect-  as is the thought that Viggo never cares that he'll still be hoarse for his classes on Monday-  
It can lead to proper fucking, too, Eric's reactions to those gentle ministrations igniting some sort of fire in Viggo that has him thrusting into Eric’s body urgently, deeply.  
Or Viggo just takes himself in hand, and sometimes, rarely, he asks him if he can come onto his skin, his chest, his stomach, and that’s such a sight, Viggo’s eyes raking over his body, his hand moving over his dick, fast, faster, so damned beautiful like this, his whole body taught with impending release. The sounds he makes when he comes all over Eric's body that is spread out beneath him, they are enough to almost make Eric come in turn, it never takes more than a couple of those quick strokes of his hand that Viggo has learned to time to perfection over the years.  
Eric loves those moments, loves Viggo for creating them, for taking the time and making the room and the two of them inside of it feel like the center of the universe for a while, loves to have Viggo all to himself, all of Viggo to himself, and that thought would strike him as selfish if he didn’t know that it’s exactly what Viggo wants, too, needs, too, to have all of Eric to himself, for a while, for the time it takes. 

And no, he will never get tired of this.

***

(written with noalinnea)

[Whatsapp, 3/9/2017]

Orlando [2.35 p.m.]: Hiya Richard

Orlando [2.35 p.m.]: (Don’t worry, I’m not writing to rant at you some more about the superiority of Beckett over Ionesco)

Orlando [2.36 p.m.]: (Even though I am right)

Orlando [2.36 p.m.]: (But every word is an unnecessary stain on silence and nothingness)

Orlando [2.37 p.m.]: I’ve been looking for my blue scar all over 

Orlando [2.37 p.m.]: *scarf

Orlando [2.38 p.m.]: Disturbing autocorrect

Orlando [2.38 p.m.]: I still had it when we came back to yours on Friday

Orlando [2.38 p.m.]: So, if you find it, don’t donate it to Oxfam

Orlando [2.39 p.m.]: I’d much rather come and collect it, if you’re free some evening this week

Richard [3:17 p.m.]: Oh words, what crimes are committed in your name! 

Richard [3:18 p.m.]: I'm not conceding that point.

Richard [3:18 p.m.]: Beckett...

Richard [3:19 p.m.]: You'll have to try much harder to convince me.

Richard [3:28 p.m.]: You know you don't have to hide your scarf behind my shoe cabinet to have an excuse to come over, right? 

Richard [3:29 p.m.]: Wednesday? 

Richard [3:30 p.m.]: I can check if this blue scar of yours is dangerous then...

***

[Whatsapp, 4/9/2017]

Orlando [12.19 a.m.]: I didn't hide my scarf

Orlando [12.19 a.m.]: What you witnessed there wasn't me being coy

Orlando [12.19 a.m.]: It was me being a slob

Orlando [12.22 a.m.]: Serious dilemma for me here btw

Orlando [12.22 a.m.]: On one hand, your offer of scar checking sounds interesting which in itself is disturbing

Orlando [12.22 a.m.]: On the other, I can't ever be seen with you in public again

Orlando [12.22 a.m.]: Ionesconian

Orlando [12.22 a.m.]: We're all born mad. Some remain so, eh?

Orlando [12.23 a.m.]: Wednesday works for me. Seven, Swan?

Richard [6:28 p.m.]: Logic is a very beautiful thing. As long as it is not abused.

Richard [6:29 p.m.]: I am not capitulating.

Richard [6:31 p.m.]: First you throw you scarf behind my cabinet, then you expect me to carry it to the Swan AND to inspect your scars in public?

Richard [6:32 p.m.]: Is this going to lead to restroom sex again?

Richard [6:32 p.m.]: Should I wear my good underwear?

Richard [6:33 p.m.]: Seven is good.

Richard [6:33 p.m.]: Swan is, too.

Orlando [7.33 p.m.]: Like you have anything but good underwear

Orlando [7.33 p.m.]: I HAVE met you, you know

Richard [7:34 p.m.]: Is that a yes?

Orlando [7:55 p.m.]: To not meeting at the Swan but at your flat because you want sex?

Orlando [7:55 p.m.]: Yes

Richard [8:17 p.m.]: Excellent.

Richard [8:18 p.m.]: That solves the underwear issue, too.

Richard [8:19 p.m.]: None required.

Richard [8:22 p.m.]: And don't tell me you weren't out after that when you stuffed that scarf behind the cabinet.

Orlando [8:40 p.m.]: I wasn't. Because I'm not a fourteen year old with a crush

Orlando [8:40 p.m.]: If I want sex, I'm gonna text you I want sex

Orlando [8:41 p.m.]: I want my scarf

Orlando [8:43 p.m.]: And sex, now that you brought it up

Richard [8:45 p.m.]: I never insinuated that you were like a teenager.

Richard [8:46 p.m.]: I'm pleased that you deem me crush-worty in general, though.

Richard [8:47 p.m.]: But I'm not sure if it's an honour that sex with me comes second on your wish list or if I need to demand a duel?

Orlando [8:59 p.m.]: Are you drunk? You sound drunk

Orlando [9:02 p.m.]: But by all means, if you want to fight it out with my scarf, be my guest

Richard [9:07 p.m.]: Sober as can be. But bored. 

Richard [9:08 p.m.]: I'm in Leeds.

Richard [9:08 p.m.]: I choose the washing machine as weapon.

Richard [9:09 p.m.]: 90°.

Orlando [9:20 p.m.]: Boredom is preferable to the torture that is Sean's fucking board game night. I hate my life

Orlando [9:21 p.m.]: Also, I choose to believe that you're joking and didn't actually wash my scarf at 90

Orlando [9:22 p.m.]: It's wool, for fuck's sake

Orlando [9:23 p.m.]: Why am I having a conversation about fucking laundry with you?

Orlando [9:24 p.m.]: I really hate my life

Richard [9:26 p.m.]: Of course I didn't!

Richard [9:26 p.m.]: NOW I'm offended.

Richard [9:27 p.m.]: Seriously.

Richard [9:27 p.m.]: Who on earth boils wool?!

Richard [9:28 p.m.]: I'd say you deserve board game night.

Orlando [9:30 p.m.]: Fuck you

Orlando [9:31 p.m.]: No really

Orlando [9:31 p.m.]: Which is not a line of thinking I should be entertaining rn, I'm serious

Richard [9:33 p.m.]: Neither should I. There's a young colleague on call today.

Richard [9:34 p.m.]: I've already had to answer six calls.

Richard [9:36 p.m.]: Maybe I should nip over there for a bit.

Richard [9:36 p.m.]: Might make for a calmer night.

Orlando [9:44 p.m.]: You do that. Meanwhile, I am gonna battle imaginary... trolls I think

Orlando [9:45 p.m.]: Which, in direct comparison to your evening activities, sounds even more meaningful

Orlando [9:46 p.m.]: See you Wednesday, then. Seven at yours

Richard [9:49 p.m.]: I'd rather battle trolls right now than get up again...

Richard [9:51 p.m.]: Wednesday it is!

Richard [9:53 p.m.]: If you don't want to drive I could pick you up after work?

Richard [9:49 p.m.]: I'd rather battle trolls right now than get up again...

Richard [9:51 p.m.]: Wednesday it is!

Richard [9:53 p.m.]: If you don't want to drive I could pick you up after work?

Richard [11:43 p.m.]: I can drop you off before work, no problem.

Richard [11:45 p.m.]: If you want to stay the night, that is.

Richard [11:50 p.m.]: You're definitely welcome to.

Richard [11:51 p.m.]: Good night!

Orlando [11:59 p.m.]:  https://www.google.com/maps/dir//Jackson+College,+Yorkshire+HG2+9JP,+United_Kingdom

Orlando [11:59 p.m]: Half six, if that works for you

***

Tuesdays are hilarious, if anyone asked Gerry. Okay, fine, no one usually asks Gerry because everyone knows that Gerry’s answers to questions are normally a. not actually answering the question, b. containing personal details about his (or for some reason West’s) life that no one in their right mind would want to know or c. so meandering that you not only don’t get an answer but also forgot the question by the time Gerry is done. But IF anyone asked Gerry, he would tell them that Tuesdays are hilarious.

For one thing, he and Eric once more get to teach drama together even though neither of them is actually qualified to do so. But in all honesty, JC employs Johnny Depp as a full time drama teacher and Gerry is absolutely certain that Johnny works under the assumption that he is the reincarnation of Sir Francis Drake. (Not that Gerry ever tried to dissuade him from that notion, if only because that makes Christopher Queen Liz I, which in itself is pure comedy gold). So Gerry and Eric are fantastically qualified in comparison, really.

For another thing, Gerry also has riding lessons on Tuedays. Gerry is aware that the application of the word ‘hilarious’ to those still holds true; not necessarily from his point of view but most definitely from the horse’s. But really, Gerry is by now very good at making somersaults through the sand when the horse has decided that it should temporarily relieve itself from Gerry’s company. And also, his riding instructor is always really very, very concerned afterwards and usually offers to kiss it better. That is a service the riding school doesn’t offer for all customers, just for the one who was clever enough to also date the person he regularly makes himself a fool in front of.

For a third thing, Tuesdays at the beginning of a new school year and around lunchtime are particularly hilarious because of Sean. Tuesdays are ‘Food from Foreign Places’ (or something like that) days in JC’s canteen, and Sean hates foreign food more than Orlando hates organized religion (well, maybe about equally much) or Miranda hates it when someone calls her ‘my dear girl’ (aside from Ian, but then, Ian could call Gerry ‘my great Scottish thugmuffin’ and Gerry would be fine with it, that’s just Ian for you). So anyway, normally - over the course of the rest of the year - Sean plays the French Resistance, only that he isn’t secretly fighting Nazis by killing sentries in the dead of night but by very openly boycotting escargot and fishtail soup by eating Fray Bento’s from the can. But not during the first month or so of a new year. Because Sean leads by example (which is probably why none of the Wellies grasp the concept of indoor voices or matching socks), and the newly arrived big-eyed first formers of course watch their head of house like newly hatched hawks with particularly good eyesight. So Sean can’t really get away with not eating what the kitchen has to offer, right? Because that would lead to tons of kids demanding chicken nuggets and spaghetti bol instead of fancy dumplings from Taiwan and whatnot. 

So, Sean eats fancy dumplings from Taiwan and whatnot. And really, Gerry is very glad that he has found a great partner in adlib theatre in Eric; because Sean? He can’t act for shit. He looks like someone is torturing his mouth and Gerry can _see_ that he is trying to swallow his mouthfuls of food without the food actually ever touching his tongue. It is _hilarious_.

***

On Wednesday, Viggo wakes up with a headache and the knowledge that he has his horrible fourth form right at the start of the day. It’s also raining outside, his right shoe seems to be missing and so is Eric next to whom he remembers falling asleep last night but who is nowhere to be found.

Viggo showers, leaves his rooms, nearly breaks his neck on the way downstairs because Khalid Mohamed for some reason is lying on the staircase with a balloon clutched to his chest. Viggo doesn’t ask what this is about, he is too tired and his knee hurts for some reason and he is feeling sorry for himself and he hates that.

He makes it across school grounds to the main building and when he comes close enough to the cafeteria, he can at least smell the scent of waffles in the air. Predictably, Eric has a stack the size of the tower of Pisa on his plate and is actually using one half eaten waffle to wave at Viggo. That, naturally, leads to Orlando giving him the stink eye and telling him not to play with food. Viggo sits down, ducks when Eric very nearly slaps him in the face with his waffle because he _needs_ Viggo to taste it right now, and simultaneously wishes for maple syrup and for Orlando to be anywhere but at their table. Eric takes Viggo’s phone, as always right there in his right hand, away from him and replaces it with a fork. Orlando meanwhile looks at Viggo the way a sadistic and bored panther looks at a gazelle who has a headache and really just wants to have breakfast in peace.

‘You don’t look too good.’ Orlando says. ‘Pulled a muscle during morning yoga?’

It’s harmless, considering who is talking, really. But Viggo still scowls.

‘Go away, Orlando.’

Orlando narrows his eyes, tilts his head. Viggo’s headache instantly grows stronger. Eric doesn’t even look up from Viggo’s phone. But he says, in a sort of by-the-way fashion,

‘We exist as atomic ionization.’

‘Excuse me?’ Orlando replies.

‘This life is nothing short of an unfolding canopy of unified potentiality.’ Eric says in very much the same tone of voice. He looks up and smiles at Orlando. ‘Consciousness consists of psionic wave oscillations of quantum energy. “Quantum” means a flowering of the holistic.’

Orlando’s eyes narrow to a degree that Viggo is certain he is just giving himself a headache right now.

‘What?’ he asks, and just that, like his instant anger doesn’t even know where to start and thus chases its own tail.

Eric lifts his shoulder, puts Viggo’s phone down, takes another waffle into both of his hands.

‘You may be ruled by stagnation without realizing it. Do not let it exterminate the richness of your path.’

He takes a huge bite out of his waffle, eyes still on Orlando. Orlando, in turn, opens his mouth, then closes it again, narrows his brows even further. Then he shakes his head, takes his empty plate and gets up.

‘Idiot,’ he says instead of a goodbye.

Eric stuffs the other half of his waffle into his mouth as he looks at Orlando’s back. There are crows feet around his eyes when he turns to look at Viggo. Viggo arches one brow in question. Eric licks his index finger clean from butter and powdered sugar before he uses it to push Viggo’s phone closer to him, points down at it.

Obediently, Viggo looks at the screen and finds Chrome opened at http://sebpearce.com/bullshit/, a New Age bullshit generator. And like this, the day is saved, even without maple syrup.

***

One of the particularly beautiful things about being head of house, Miranda has discovered, is the fact that first formers lose even the last bit of inhibition they have towards you. So, she isn’t really surprised when Jojo Santos comes up to her around tea time with a sheet of paper in his hand. 

It shows a man on a horse. Jojo isn’t the most talented of artists, it has to be said, so Miranda is thankful that he put “Mr Butler” next to the man’s grinning face and “Dr Snuggles” next to the horse, and a ‘For my favourit teacher’ underneath it; all of it in bold Sharpie. 

Miranda bites back a smile when Jojo, somewhat apologetically, informs her that Miranda herself comes in as close second, ‘but Mr Butler, he is just so funny, you know’. 

Miranda tells Jojo that she fully understands and then points at the picture, at the rather prominent penis that Jojo drew between Dr Snuggles’s hindlegs. 

Jojo looks at her, now both pityingly and with disapproval, and tells her that they learned in class with Mr Butler that it’s always important to get the details right. And Dr Snuggles is a stallion. 

Miranda is just glad that Gerry is wearing clothes in the picture.

***

There is a reason why Sean told Orlando, when he first became head of house, that a good pair of earplugs will be his best friends. One does sleep better when after a long day one just consciously decides to ignore the pittterpatter of feet and the hushed giggles on staircases every once in a while.

Orlando of course doesn't own a single pair.

***

These are ~~nine~~ ten things that happened at JC on Saturday, September, 9th:

1 - Miranda has a stern conversation with Steven Bosgrove about never again eating so many Mars bars that vomitting in his sleep remains a singular occurance.

2 - Orlando’s copy of [’Responsibility and control’](https://www.amazon.co.uk/Responsibility-Control-Cambridge-Studies-Philosophy/dp/0521775795) arrives in the mail. He rearranges priorities - putting up the new shelves in the bedroom can wait; the neat stacks of books on the floor of the sitting room that didn’t find room on the shelves anymore will keep for another day. So will vacuuming, socializing, food. He puts the kettle on, flops down on his couch, starts reading.

3 - Matt is slightly worried for five minutes at TESCO. It isn’t because Frank Underson goes missing - he does, but Matt is always very clear about how he will just drive off without them, if the kids from Palm House he took with him fail to turn up at the bus in time - but because he can’t find Kiele’s favourite mustard in its usual place. A bit of worry and one short conversation with a shop assistant later, however, it turns out they just moved it because it’s on sale.

4 - Karl and Beth go rock climbing and get told off by the supervising staff. Apparently they think people making out whilst stuck to the side of their most notorious rock is sending mixed messages.

5 - When, at lunch in the canteen, Orlando isn’t present, Emma asks Roddy Keen, lower sixer and both in Emma’s AS-level and in Mirkwood House, whether he has seen his head of house anywhere. Roddy very politely swallows the pound of chicken he has in his mouth before he informs Emma ‘haven’t seen him all day, not since the postman arrived’.

6 - Martina Sanchez nearly twists her ankle when, during football practice on a rather muddy field, her shoe gets stuck in the mud while the rest of her body tries to move forward. Coach Bean is not very good at hiding his amusement.

7 - Boris and Bernard both exit the forest, looking over their shoulders every couple of steps. But there is no doubt about it. They are being stalked by a rather shabby gray kitten.

8 - Gerry declares Viggo his new favourite person on the planet when, after pony club, Eric invites him over for a beer and Gerry and the Rapunzel/Spiderman mural meet for the first time. It is pretty much love at first sight, which surprises no one, especially not Eric.

9 - Sean [4:56 pm]: Pint, Pony later?

Sean [5:20 pm]: Too busy?

Sean [5:25 pm]: Or dead?

Sean [7:13 pm]: Lando?

(written by noalinnea)

[09/09/2017, 7:47 p.m.]

“Hi, this is Orlando Bloom. I can't take your call right now, but you can leave a message after the tone, and I will get back to you as soon as I can. If it's urgent, contact Jackson College under 01904 667700. If it's life or death, you might consider calling the police or the fire brigade instead.”

'Hi. It's Richard. I was hoping to catch you in person, actually. Is it board game night again?' [Chuckle] 'Anyway, it turns out we're basically leaving for the airport in the middle of the night, Lucy thought it would be a good idea to arrive early. Oh, well. I guess there'll be coffee. But- what I was going to say- I'd love to see that play with you, in London. I checked the roster earlier, and I can either do the first or third weekend in October, if that works for you? The weekend when I'm getting back might also work- though- no, on a second thought, I don't think so, I'm going to look like a barbarian, then, and I should probably shave and wash off all the travelling grime before going back to work on Monday. So- October? Just let me know.' [Pause] 'Okay. Well, so, I guess I'll talk to you when I get back, yeah? And maybe we can see each other that weekend? Saturday evening? That's- wait, let me see-- the 23rd. I'd like that.' [Pause, then quiet laugh] 'Alright. Take care now, Orlando. Bye.'

***

‘Ahoy West! Good of you to call, I thought you had maybe lost my number.’

‘Hello. And you didn’t think that.’

‘How would you know?’

‘Last time you thought I did, you came over and gave me printouts of it. 23 of them. And then you stuck them to my kitchen window and put them in my underwear drawer.’

‘Aye, but that was when you were still living at JC. Times were simpler then.’

‘Sure, that is exactly what I would say to that. Only that I wouldn’t so much use the word ‘simple’ as ‘insane’, but sure.’

‘Which is why I now have to virtually stalk you. This is not something I like doing either.’

‘Interesting. I was gonna say something about the 15 emails you sent me this morning, but trust you to make that sound creepier than that.’

‘Aye, I am watching you through the camera on your laptop.’

‘You know I wouldn’t put that past you.’

‘Nah, I don’t know how. Do you think I should get some tutoring from Aldis?’

‘Hell, no. But thank you for your emails. I am not sure what to do with them, but thank you.’

‘You’re supposed to look at the attachments, numpty.’

‘Excuse me that I don’t open any attachments that come in mails you send to me.’

‘I am offended.’

‘Sorry.’

‘I sent you photos. From California, and other places in America.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I thought you might want to look at them?’

‘Yes, I understand that. But why send 15 emails? Why don’t you just copy them on a flash drive and come over so we can look at them together?’

‘That is a belter idea, West! Why didn’t I think of it? Give me fifteen minutes, or make that twenty, I need to grab a quick shower, and I’ll be there, and with beer. And you can show me pictures from Iceland, and all the ponies you saw.’

‘For the last time, Gerry, I did not see any ponies in Iceland. If I had the chance, I’d have gone and looked at some of the geysirs, not miniature horses. But I was stuck at the airport for half a day and didn’t even leave the building. - Gerry?’

‘Aye, still there, could you speak up a bit?’

‘What is that noise?’

‘Water, West.’

‘Gerry, are you in the shower?’

‘What? I told you, you need to speak up, I am in the shower.’

‘For fuck’s sake.’

***

When Viggo returns to Arnor House a little later than planned - he and Bernie kinda gotten distracted (Viggo) / lost (Bernie) in the woods during what Bernie dubbed ‘a pleasant walk through the woods of autum, such as grown ups like to indulge in’ -, he finds the house smelling of ginger bread. That is a little surprising, considering September isn’t even half over yet. It doesn’t smell like the house might burn down any minute now, so Viggo first washes the mud from his hands (and picks a couple of random leaves from his hair, he has no idea how they got there), before he goes back downstairs to make enquiries. 

Eric grins at him when he enters the kitchen. He is wearing an apron that has ‘Katie’ embroidered onto it and that is definitely about ten sizes too small for him. Aside from him Viggo also spots Katie McMannon, Rakesh Sanji, Jake Cole, and Jennifer Ashton, all looking very serious and like they are in class. Which, Viggo figures, they kinda are. The kitchen counters are stacked with baking ingredients and possibly all the pots Arnor House has to offer. The oven is open right now, Rakesh hunched over it as he is pulling out the latest batch of ginger bread. The kitchen table itself looks like the table of Churchill’s war room, or, no, like the drawing board of a prestigious architect’s office. Even though the drawings are upside down from where Viggo is standing, it is not hard to tell what they show - city landmarks from all over the world, all picked out not so much by their artistic value, Viggo supposes, but by their geometrical simplicity. Katie is wielding a giant kitchen knife, busy cutting out the shape of one fourth of the Eiffel Tower, and Jake and Jennifer stand by with icing to act as glue.

‘Do you take commissions?’ Viggo asks, leaning against the doorway. ‘Because I’d really like Cristo Redentor, the big one from Rio, if you do.’

***

(written by noalinnea)

Sean finds Orlando in the library at one of the tables that are not visible from the door with a thick leather-bound book in front of him and taking notes, of course.

He pulls out a chair on the opposite side of the table, sits down, props up his arms on the tabletop, rests his chin in his palms and just regards Orlando in silence for a moment.

'What do you want?' Orlando asks without looking up when he has finished the paragraph. 

'I've come upon you with a different book three nights in a row now and you've not left the school premises all weekend.'

Orlando shrugs and jots something down on his notepad. 'So?' he asks distractedly.

'So, what's with your Richard?'

Orlando clicks his tongue in irritation. 

'He's not my Richard.'

Sean meets his frown by raising his brows.

'Are you Ashley's Sean?' Orlando asks, his eyes firmly fixed on Sean now.

Sean considers being offended by the fact that Orlando has managed to make that sound like an insult but then simply shrugs and chuckles.

'In a way,' he says lightly, winking at Orlando who pulls a face in reply.

'That's gross, man, I don't want to hear details.'

When Sean keeps smirking at him he adds:  'Was there a point to this conversation to begin with?'

'Yes,' Sean says and leans forward a little. 'Beer?'

Orlando glances at his watch, then shrugs.

'Sure.' He caps his pen, closes the book and gathers his notes before getting up, putting the book back onto the shelf and then following Sean to the door.

'So,' Sean asks with a sideway glance when he closes the heavy door behind them. 'Is it over?'

Orlando is a couple of steps ahead of Sean and stops to let him catch up, cocking his head to the side.  
'What, the war? Well, you're the history teacher.'

Sean sighs and shakes his head. 'You and Richard.'

Sean can feel if not see Orlando's brows furrow and very clearly hear his exasperation. And impatience.

'Why? Because he's in France? Bit of a weird reason for breaking things off, don't you reckon? And keep on walking, or we'll never make it to yours before Emmerdale starts.'  
***

(written with noalinnea)

"Hello, this is the voicemail of Eric Bana. Unfortunately I can't take your call at this moment, but you're welcome to leave your name and number after the beep, and I'll call you back. Alternatively, you could try 07700 900407. Cheers!"

'Yeah no, no matter how often you'll try that, I'm certainly not gonna call Viggo's number. This is Orlando by the way, with a question, a request, and an fyi. First of all, are you aware that it is the middle of September? Second of all, kindly come over and hold the hands of Sasha Tompkin and Carl Vanguard who are sick to their stomach and demand to be shot in the head because apparently their maths teacher fed them half a ton of gingerbread. And third of all, an fyi: Fuck you very much, Eric. Seriously.'

Eric [10:41 p.m.]: This wasn't just a lesson in geometry but in resisting temptation and exercising self-control.

Eric [10:42 p.m.]: Don't ask me why your students failed so spectacularly.

Eric [10:42 p.m.]: Ours are all fine and neatly tucked into bed.

Eric [10:43 p.m.]: As is Sean.

Eric [10:43 p.m.]: Fine, I mean. And he ate half of the cookies.

Eric [10:44 p.m.]: media content in this message

Orlando [11:01 pm]: I emailed Christopher, asking since when exercises in self-control and whatever are part of the maths curriculum. Looking forward to his reply.

Orlando [11:02 pm]: media content in this message

Orlando [11:02 pm]: Just to prove to you that I'm not fucking around

Eric [11:15 p.m.]: It's only cookies and sick kids, Orlando, not WWII.

Eric [11:17 p.m.]: Let me make it up to you tomorrow.

Eric [11:17 p.m.]: Tea and cookies at Arnor House, 5 p.m.

Eric [11:19 p.m.]: If cookies are not acceptable because Christmas and whatnot, I'll make you a sarnie.

Orlando [11:26 p.m.]: Could you be more of a boring person?

Orlando [11:27 p.m.]: So boring

Orlando [11:27 p.m.]: And no to the invitation. Because I am not a 70 year old granny

Orlando [11:28 p.m.]: Buy me a pint at the Pony tomorrow and let me beat your ass at darts

Eric [11.29 p.m.]: It's on.

Eric [11:30 p.m.]: I'm going to annihilate you, though.

Eric [11:30 p.m.]: Obviously.

Orlando [11:35 p.m.]: Dream on

***

When Eric stumbles into his rooms in Arnor House, way too late and way too let’s call it tipsy for a regular Wednesday evening, he just replies to Viggo’s text (‘Good night?’) with a short ‘Mathematically pleasing’ before he faceplants into bed.

On this particular Wednesday evening, on September, 13th, a lot of 13-things happen. 

13 is - that should maybe be said beforehand - one of Eric’s favourite numbers to begin with.   
It is the sixth prime number (his second favourite after 2),   
the smallest emirp (which is a prime that is a different prime when reversed, “so practically an hermit giving birth to a hermit by immaculate conception”, as Viggo said when Eric explained it to him),   
the best of the only three known Wilson primes (aside from 5 and 563 - 5, in Eric’s opinion is a stupid number because it’s simplistic and very arrogant about it, and 563 is a very pale yellow that looks like the piss of a sick man),  
a Pythagorean triple (and Eric fricking loves those),  
a Fibonacci number (which are pretty much porn for mathematicians, to be fair),  
and a happy number (and not just for the reason that Viggo thinks).

Thirteen 13-things happen on this Wednesday:  
1 - Eric has 13 heart-shaped waffle pieces for breakfast.  
2 - At 13:13, a bird shits on Christopher’s shoulder and he doesn’t notice it until  
3 - 13 minutes later.  
4 - The 13 somewhat indulgent items that Eric ordered online for his baby arrive.  
5 - There are exactly 13 cookies left from the great gingerbread experiment of 2017.  
6 - When out with Eric at the Pony, Orlando smiles exactly 13 times over the course of the evening. It is not weird for Eric to know that (or to have counted), he had to because of his ongoing bet with Viggo about the matter (which Viggo always keeps losing because he constantly puts his money - or blowjobs, last hobnobs, last rounds, and whatever else they bet on - steadfastly on zero).  
7 - Orlando listens attentatively for 13 minutes when Eric talks about the number 13 and why it is awesome.  
8 - He asks 13 questions about it, out of which only 2 are pretty stupid.  
9 - They play 13 matches of darts, out of which Eric wins 7 and Orlando 6,  
10 - a fact that renders Orlando speechless for exactly 13 seconds before he proceeds to curse a blue streak.  
11 - They talk about 13 different topics over the course of the evening. Eric knows because he forbids Orlando to start with a new one when they reach 13, and Orlando calls him a fucking weirdo, but takes it in stride and just goes back to no. 6 (football). Other topics include engines, autumn holidays, Orlando’s strange pupil nudist colony of two on the second floor of Mirkwood House, polar bears, Orlando’s trip to Prague, Eric’s heroic deeds as a marriage counselor in Meteora, and... Five other things that Eric can’t really recall because  
12 - between them, they have 13 half-pints of beer.  
13 - At exactly 1:13 am, the mattress dips next to Eric and Viggo’s chuckled, “sweet Jesus, you smell like an entire brewery” is the last thing he hears before falling asleep.

***

Dominic walks into the staff room around noon. Normally he spends his break in the lab, but due to a small mishap there earlier it is largely uninhabitable unless one wears a gas mask. And Dominic has found out that colleagues and pupils alike react with bafflement to that. That in itself wouldn’t be a hindrance, but the fact that he can’t eat his lunch sandwich is.

So he seeks greener - or at least less smelling-of-rotten-egg - pastures in the staff room. He should have known better. As he comes in, it is relatively deserted, save for Bernard, the new bloke, and Johnny. Bernard sits on the seat usually occupied by Sean and eats cookies usally eaten by Sean. He is also providing what he probably considers helpful commentary. Johnny is talking with the new guy. Or rather, he is talking at the new guy. And New Guy seems to be quite impressionable. Dominic vaguely remembers that he has been a pupil here as well, so his already sub-level compassion is even more sub. New Guy should know better. He doesn’t, of course. Five seconds after Dominic entered, New Guy climbs on a chair because Johnny tells him to, stretching out his arms to both sides.

Dominic doesn’t ask. He isn’t interested. He turns on his heels and walks out. Straight into Gerry, as it happens. Gerry is very broad, very solid, and also very unyielding when you happen to walk into him by accident. He is also very loud in his yelled greeting, and his embrace is bone-crushing.

Maybe Dominic should have stayed in his lab after all.

***

(written by noalinnea)

'Eric, hey.' Viggo's voice sounds muffled, and that's weird, Eric thinks, before he drifts back off to sleep.

'Eric.' Viggo's voice is louder now, closer, and his head suddenly feels cold, the pillow covering it having mercilessly been removed.

Eric simply hums his disapproval and goes back to sleep.

'Eric, wake up, come on.' Viggo's hand on his back is warm, as are his lips, Eric notices when Viggo bends down to press a kiss onto his cheek.

'Leave me be,' Eric murmurs and is about to go back to sleep when Viggo laughingly pulls away the duvet and cold air hits his body.

'Come on, you can do it,' Viggo coaxes, sounding amused now.

'Ngh-' Eric summarizes the situation and hears Viggo chuckle in response.

'Almost there,' he encourages Eric and smiles at him when he finally manages to open one eye.

'There you go,' Viggo says, sounding like the proud mother of a toddler taking the first wobbly steps.

'I brought you coffee.'

Eric realizes- a little disappointed- that he probably won't go away, no matter what he says, and opts for grunting.

'I know,' he hears Viggo say, 'but it's Thursday. You have to get up.'

Eric sighs and closes his eye again.

'Nu-uh,' Viggo chides and nudges his arm. 'Nothing of that now.'

Nnnghhh, Eric thinks.

'I brought you a croissant, too,' Viggo says and there is the rustling of a paper bag. 'Or two, actually. One chocolate, one apricot-filled.'

'You did?' Eric says and opens both eyes.

Viggo smiles at him. 'I did.' He takes a bite of his own croissant and a spray of crumbs hits Eric's arm. 'Sorry,' Viggo says and tries to brush away the crumbs with his palm, managing to send them flying everywhere. 'I had to take your bike, though. Mine still has that flat tyre.'

The coffee smells good, Eric has to admit that, even if he can already tell that he won't be able to stomach his breakfast, not today. But he can always save the croissants for later. He turns onto his side and gestures with his hand to get Viggo to hand him his cup. Which he thankfully does. And thankfully he seems to have stirred half of the sugar bowl's contents into the coffee, just the way Eric likes it.

When Eric is propped up against the headboard, the cup cradled in his hands, Viggo retrieves the duvet from the floor and tucks it back around him.

Eric replies with a smile, if one that's still a little shaky, and Viggo just nods and reaches out to squeeze his thigh through the duvet.

'So,' he then says after taking a sip of his own coffee. 'You made him lose?'

Eric feels himself grin. 'Course I did.'

Viggo looks satisfied.

'You owe me two thirty-five, though.'

'Don't tell me he smiled,' Viggo says, raising his brows.

'Course he did, I keep telling you,' Eric replies.

'The two of you have a weird thing going there, do you realize that?' Viggo says but there's no heat behind it and Eric just shrugs.

'You have a weird thing with Bernard,' he says.

Viggo chuckles. 'I do, I most certainly do.'

He smiles at Eric and momentarily tightens his grip around his thigh.

'Listen, why don't I make dinner tonight and we spend a quiet night in?' he then asks.

Eric reaches out to place his hand on Viggo's. 'That sounds great, Vig,' he says quietly and watches the laugh lines around Viggo's eyes deepen.

***

Sean and about ten of his Wellies spend an hour searching for Tim Melcher, one of Wellesley Hall’s new first formers. The Wellies mostly regard this as a rather fun game of hide and seek, but really, Sean is rather worried when it is getting dark and they still haven’t found the boy. That is when Orlando shows up - it _is_ ten to seven. He watches Sean hurry in and out of Tala, Wellesley’s central common room with the large TV (currently showing shitty stuff on itv that no one present wants to watch - one dark glare from Orlando keeps the pupils present from changing the channel, though). When it is five to seven, he clears his throat, and when Sean looks at him, he suggests that the search party might wanna check out the attic. There is a wooden pull-down ladder leading up to it, and the attic _is_ a good spot for hiding. 

Sean stares at Orlando for a second, then he bellows at his second in command / some random third year to check out the attic. Orlando has already reached the door to Sean’s rooms when the one-man-search party bellows (seriously, Wellies) that Tim has indeed been up there. When Sean shows up in his living room, he finds Orlando on the couch, feet on the coffee table, and eyes on the telly. 

Even though it makes him miss the start of their programme, Sean makes a detour into the kitchen to fix them a sarnie. Because it’s due to Orlando that Tim was found and Sean can watch TV instead of worrying now, and also because he kind of remembers why Orlando knows where to look for little lost Wellies who just want to curse the world in private for a little bit.

***

(written with noalinnea) 

Richard [7:32 p.m.]: Hey. I'm sitting here with a coffee and a croissant and a view across this spectacular mountain plateau and am wondering if it's already autumn in York and rainy and gray or if you can still sit outside with your books (and don't tell me you haven't already read a whole stack since I left. Ionesco?)? 

Richard [7:33 p.m.]: media content in this message 

Richard [7:42 p.m.]: Next saturday, yeah? Eight, my place? 

Orlando [8:55 p.m.]: http://philosophy.cah.ucf.edu/fpr/files/11_1/valentine.pdf

Orlando [8:55 p.m.]: Essay on Ionesco and kitsch I just read

Orlando [8:55 p.m.]: The conclusion of which is this:

Orlando [8:56 p.m.]: “[Ionesco] sought to convey a primal glimpse of the enigma, the darkness, and the mysterious qualities (sometimes beautiful, sometimes inane and ridiculous, sometimes horrific) of individualized human life. But this could only be accomplished by the unrelenting exposure of how we are all ensnared by the clichés and lies of language, cultural conventions, political conformism, and philosophical idealizations. The way to authenticity was surgically to remove all types of kitsch in the most direct and hyperbolic manner possible, and the result was an oeuvre that took tragedy and comedy to the extreme limits of the human condition.”(p.12)

Orlando [8:56 p.m.]: Which is pretty much bullshit

Orlando [8:57 p.m.]: Because that “most hyperbolic [...] manner possible” inadvertantly turns the strained attempt to avoid kitsch into something kitschy itself; “superficial, propagandized, idealized, and false”(p.1) in itself

Orlando [8:57 p.m.]: So no, I’m not reading Ionesco

Orlando [8:58 p.m.]: Your holiday destination looks really nice. It’s raining here. Surprise

Orlando [8:58 p.m.]: Saturday, eight, yours. I can pick up curry and chips or something if you want, let me know

***

Karl wakes up on a rainy Sunday morning with two thoughts in his head: He needs to piss, and he is very possibly in love with Beth. The first is something easily taken care of, once he managed to disentangle himself from sweaty sheets and climbed over Beth and Boris to get out of the bed and to the bathroom. The second thing is something he contemplates after taking care of the first and returning to the bedroom, a toothbrush between his lips. He scratches his naked chest and the sound of the brush in his mouth kind of tunes out Beth’s and Boris’s snores. 

Most of the women Karl has been with since he got Boris were more or less clear about not wanting a dog with them in their bed. And that was before Boris grew into the canine tank he is today; even when he was a puppy and his puppy farts that he let go under the blanket really weren’t all that bad, most of Karl’s female companions objected to them. Beth doesn’t. Beth says that what with Karl farting in bed anyway, _her_ doing the same, it doesn’t matter whether or not Boris adds to the mix. They sleep with the window open anyway; problem sorted.

Boris doesn’t necessarily like most of the people he meets. Karl thinks that it is because they have prejudices against Rottweilers, and he can very much understand Boris’s preemptive resentment. Boris gets on fine with Bernie, is somewhat scared of Orlando and looks at the rest of the population of the world with more or less openly shown disinterest. It’s different with Beth. Beth and Boris get on so well that Karl might consider getting jealous, if he could decide whom to be jealous of.

Karl momentarily returns to the bathroom to get rid of the toothpaste foam and returns to his bedroom feeling fresh and ready to go and whatnot. Beth and Boris are right where he left them, cuddling. Quite often when Karl and Beth retire and are finished having sex, Boris jumps onto the bed with them, usually using either of them as a mattress. Quite often, like right now, in the morning, it is the other way around. Karl wakes up with his front pressed to Beth’s back, and Beth has her arms wrapped around Boris, using him as a dog-shaped pillow. Karl loves that, even though it makes sleepy early morning sex a bit awkward.

Karl standing in the doorway like the world’s slowest home invader must’ve steered some protective instinct within Boris because he wakes with a giant yawn and gets out of bed. He trots over to Karl, sniffs his naked knee, yawns again when Karl pats his head, and pushes past him to get to the kitchen and check on the contents of his bowl.

On the bed, Beth grumbles, opens one eye to look at the digital clock on the nightstand (it’s 5.45), and pats the mattress next to her in what must be the least coordinated movement Karl has ever witnessed from her.

‘Sex,’ she says, drawing out the vowel in that word to a length of several seconds, and making it sound like a complaint and a demand both.

Karl really quite fancies her. And also, sex.

***

Orlando calls by Wellesley House around half four, only to have a lower sixer with rather too little respect for authority nearly run into him and tell him that ‘Sean is in the library’. A stuttered ‘sir’ is added a moment later after Orlando’s eyes reenacted the Night of the Long Knives on him.

Orlando stops by the cafeteria and has a brief chat with kitchen-staff-member-on-duty [Donna](https://media.giphy.com/media/LiQCw7myjDIiY/giphy.gif), possibly the one person even Christopher and Orlando are somewhat afraid of, smiles at her three times and gets two mugs of P.G. Tips for his efforts.

He pushes the door to the library open with his shoulder, steaming tea in both his hands. Halts. Frowns heavily.

Sean and what must be at least half of his A-level occupy the room. Sean is sitting at his usual table, so many books around him that he started to use several chairs as well. Possibly as a consequence of the shortage of sitting opportunities caused by their organisatory mess of a history teacher, most of Sean’s pupils sit on the floor. Or cower there. One is lying on his belly, his head half under a chair as if he is expecting an air raid.

It smells different than usual, too. Normally the library smells of books, faintly of the slightly lemony scrubbing milk the cleaning staff uses on the tables, or (at the beginning of every month) of parquet wax. Now it smells of human. Of teenager to be more precise.

Orlando scrunches up his nose, but enters anyway, the sound of the door falling shut behind him universally ignored. He puts Sean’s mug down on the smallest of the horribly stacked pile of books, right on top of Hitler’s face. Sean looks up at him, his eyes behind his reading glasses taking a moment to readjust. He smiles.

‘Cheers, Lando,’ he says.

‘Welcome,’ Orlando replies and with his now free hand he points at one of the few free chairs. ‘Mind some company?’

‘Yours? Never.’ 

Sean gestures him to sit and tries to pull out a book from under the Hitler one that is, as of right now, acting as a coaster. Orlando steadies the mug as he sits down, growls quietly at Sean. Sean ignores him, but holds out the book.

‘Here, pretty sure you’re gonna like this,’ he says. ‘It has a huge section on Wagner, Nietzsche, and the international influence of Nationalsocialism in it, that I’d really like to discuss with -’

‘Shush!’ chides the air raid boy from somewhere close to Orlando’s feet with quite a lot of venom. When Orlando glances under the table, his eyes are met by a scowl.

‘Library.’ air raid boy (Taran Calbury) hisses. And Orlando won’t dispute that.

‘Apologies,’ he says quietly, leans back in his chair and flips open the book that Sean just handed him.

***

Wednesday they have a staff meeting that goes on for three hours due to Orlando and his idiotic idea that they should evaluate project oriented learning week. Wednesday is also the day that Gerry discovers [the random movie plot generator](https://www.plot-generator.org.uk/movie-script/).

Orlando likes Samuel Beckett, Gerry knows that ( _everyone_ knows that). Which is why Gerry prints out the following screenplay that the site generously spat out and presents it to Orlando after their tea break.

**Mean Vampire  
 _A Screenplay by Scottish Thugmuffin_**

INT. SCHOOL - AFTERNOON  
Funny superhero MR GERRY BUTLER is arguing with sarcastic riding instructor MRS JANE THELWELL. GERRY tries to hug JANE but she shakes him off.

GERRY  
Please Jane, don't leave me.  
JANE  
I'm sorry Gerry, but I'm looking for somebody a bit more brave. Somebody who faces his fears head on, instead of running away.  
GERRY  
I am such a person!

JANE frowns.

JANE  
I'm sorry, Gerry. I just don't feel excited by this relationship anymore.

JANE leaves.  
GERRY sits down, looking defeated.  
Moments later, kind spy MR DOMINIC WEST barges in looking flustered.

GERRY  
Goodness, West! Is everything okay?  
WEST  
I'm afraid not.  
GERRY  
What is it? Don't keep me in suspense...  
WEST  
It's ... a vampire ... I saw an evil vampire bite a bunch of pupils!  
GERRY  
Defenseless pupils?  
WEST  
Yes, defenseless pupils!  
GERRY  
Bloomin' heck, West! We've got to do something.  
WEST  
I agree, but I wouldn't know where to start.  
GERRY  
You can start by telling me where this happened.  
WEST  
I was...

WEST fans himself and begins to wheeze.

GERRY  
Focus WEST, focus! Where did it happen?  
WEST  
Pony Club! That's right - Pony Club!

GERRY springs up and begins to run.

EXT. A ROAD - CONTINUOUS  
GERRY rushes along the street, followed by WEST. They take a short cut through some back gardens, jumping fences along the way.

EXT. PONY CLUB - SHORTLY AFTER  
ORLANDO BLOOM a mean vampire terrorises two pupils.  
GERRY, closely followed by WEST, rushes towards ORLANDO, but suddenly stops in his tracks.

WEST  
What is is? What's the matter?  
GERRY  
That's not just any old vampire, that's Orlando Bloom!  
WEST  
Who's Orlando Bloom?  
GERRY  
Who's Orlando Bloom? Who's Orlando Bloom? Only the most mean vampire in the universe!  
WEST  
Blinkin' knickers, Gerry! We're going to need some help if we're going to stop the most mean vampire in the universe!  
GERRY  
You can say that again.  
WEST  
Blinkin' knickers, Gerry! We're going to need some help if we're going to stop the most mean vampire in the universe!  
GERRY  
I'm going to need bibles, lots of bibles.

Orlando turns and sees Gerry and WEST. He grins an evil grin.

ORLANDO  
Gerry Butler, we meet again.  
WEST  
You've met?  
GERRY  
Yes. It was a long, long time ago...

EXT. A PARK - BACK IN TIME  
A young GERRY is sitting in a park listening to some 80s hairmetal, when suddenly a dark shadow casts over him.  
He looks up and sees ORLANDO. He takes off his headphones.

ORLANDO  
Would you like some chocolate?

GERRY's eyes light up, but then he studies ORLANDO more closely, and looks uneasy.

GERRY  
I don't know, you look kind of mean.  
ORLANDO  
Me? No. I'm not mean. I'm the least mean vampire in the world.  
GERRY  
Wait, you're a vampire?

GERRY runs away, screaming.

EXT. PONY CLUB - PRESENT DAY

ORLANDO  
You were a coward then, and you are a coward now.  
WEST  
(To GERRY) You ran away?  
GERRY  
(To WEST) I was a young child. What was I supposed to do?

GERRY turns to ORLANDO.

GERRY  
I may have run away from you then, but I won't run away this time!  
GERRY runs away.

He turns back and shouts.

GERRY  
I mean, I am running away, but I'll be back - with religion.  
ORLANDO  
I'm not scared of you.  
GERRY  
You should be.

EXT. CRICKET PITCH - LATER THAT DAY  
GERRY and WEST walk around searching for something.

GERRY  
I feel sure I saw a bible somewhere around here.  
WEST  
Are you sure? It does seem like an odd place to keep a bible.  
GERRY  
You know nothing, West.  
WEST  
We've been searching for ages. I really don't think it's here.

Suddenly, ORLANDO appears, holding a bible.

ORLANDO  
Looking for something?  
WEST  
Crikey, Gerry, he's got Viggo's bible.  
GERRY  
Tell me something I don't already know!  
WEST  
The earth's circumference at the equator is about 40,075 km.  
GERRY  
I know that already!  
WEST  
I like bearded women.  
ORLANDO  
(appalled) Dude!

While ORLANDO is looking at WEST with disgust, GERRY lunges forward and grabs the bible. He wields its, triumphantly.

GERRY  
Prepare to die, you mean carrot!  
ORLANDO  
No please! All I did was bite a bunch of pupils!

JANE comes, unseen by any of the others.

GERRY  
I cannot tolerate that kind of behaviour! Those pupils were defenceless! Well now they have a defender - and that's me! Gerry Butler defender of innocent pupils.  
ORLANDO  
Don't hurt me! Please!  
GERRY  
Give me one good reason why I shouldn't use this bible on you right away!  
ORLANDO  
Because Gerry, I am your father.

GERRY looks stunned for a few moments, but then collects himself.

GERRY  
No you're not!  
ORLANDO  
Ah well, it had to be worth a try.

ORLANDO tries to grab the bible but GERRY dodges out of the way.

GERRY  
Who's the daddy now? Huh? Huh?

Unexpectedly, ORLANDO slumps to the ground.

WEST  
Did he just faint?  
GERRY  
I think so. Well that's disappointing. I was rather hoping for a more dramatic conclusion, involving my deadly bible.

GERRY crouches over ORLANDO's body.

WEST  
Be careful, Gerry. It could be a trick.  
GERRY  
No, it's not a trick. It appears that... It would seem... Orlando Bloom is dead!  
WEST  
What?  
GERRY  
Yes, it appears that I scared him to death.

WEST claps his hands.

WEST  
So Viggo's bible did save the day, after all.

JANE steps forward.

JANE  
Is it true? Did you kill the mean vampire?  
GERRY  
Jane how long have you been...?

JANE puts her arm around GERRY.

JANE  
Long enough.  
GERRY  
Then you saw it for yourself. I killed Orlando Bloom.  
JANE  
Then the pupils are safe?  
GERRY  
It does seem that way!

A crowd of vulnerable pupils appear, looking relived.

JANE  
You are their hero.

The pupils bow to GERRY.

GERRY  
There is no need to bow to me. I seek no worship. The knowledge that Orlando Bloom will never bite pupils ever again, is enough for me.  
JANE  
You are humble as well as brave!

One of the pupils brings GERRY the cute Al Capony.

JANE  
I think they want you to have it, as a symbol of their gratitude.  
GERRY  
I couldn't possibly.

Pause.

GERRY  
Well, if you insist.

GERRY hugs Al Capony.

GERRY  
Thank you.

The pupils bow their heads once more, and leave.  
GERRY turns to JANE.

GERRY  
Does this mean you want me back?  
JANE  
Oh, Gerry, of course I want you back!

GERRY smiles for a few seconds, but then looks defiant.

GERRY  
Well you can't have me.  
JANE  
WHAT?  
GERRY  
You had no faith in me. You had to see my scare a vampire to death before you would believe in me. I don't want a lover like that.  
JANE  
But...  
GERRY  
Please leave. I want to spend time with the one person who stayed with me through thick and thin - my best friend, West.

WEST grins.

JANE  
But...  
WEST  
You heard the gentleman. Now be off with you. Skidaddle! Shoo!  
JANE  
Gerry?  
GERRY  
I'm sorry Jane, but I think you should skidaddle.

JANE leaves.  
WEST turns to GERRY.

WEST  
Did you mean that? You know ... that I'm your best friend?  
GERRY  
Of course you are!

The two walk off arm in arm.  
Suddenly WEST stops.

WEST  
When I said I like bearded women, you know I was just trying to distract the vampire don't you?  
THE END

***

The temperatures are still surprisingly mild and Eric is happy to note that it’s clouded when his lessons end. Waxing his car isn’t really an activity for a sunny day, anyone with a brain knows that. He gets to work and is rather quickly down to a t-shirt, despite the slight wind. He has to laugh when Viggo decides to keep him company, wearing a padded jacket that isn’t only two sizes to big but also has a huge fake fur lining that makes him look like a wayward Inuit. For some reason that Eric has no interest in exploring any further, the only book that can be found in JC’s garage (aside from a car manual from 1989, Sean’s name written with broad Sharpie on the cover) is a copy of ‘Eat Pray Love’. Because he is somewhat bored by watching Eric make love to his car, Viggo starts reading it out loud. Since the book only consists of the second half, the fist one having been torn out by someone at some point, Viggo reads it backwards. He claims that what is good enough for reverted heavy metal and secret satanistic messages should also work on ‘Eat Pray Love’. Eric is very certain that it doesn’t, but who is he to argue.

***  
There is exactly one thing to keep Viggo and Orlando in a room together without them being at each others throats after five minutes. Philip Marlowe movies.

Sometimes, like today, when Sean just wants a bit of piece and quiet and his friends to get along (which should be not too much to ask), he mentions Humphrey Bogart over lunch or something. Two things are pretty certain to happen: Eric will lean his head back and make snoring sounds (‘Not enough car chases in Bogart movies, guys. Can’t we watch McQueen?’) and Orlando and Viggo will invite themselves over to Wellesley Hall.

Usually they watch in one of the common rooms. Tala has a nice big telly and besides, it is neutral ground (Sean learned his lesson when, in 2010, his DVD player broke and Orlando and Viggo, deprived of ‘The Big Sleep’ started fighting about Feuerbach, a night that Sean remembers as that of No Sleep, actually), and usually there are pupils around that accidentally get educated on the art form that is film noir.

Sean honestly owes a lot to good old Bogie.

***

It's Friday night, the end of a week, and Orlando closes the door to his rooms around ten after strategically growling at a couple of pupils. He showers, turns off his phone, puts on sweatpants. He stands in front of the bookcase in his sitting room for a good ten minutes, silence around him, until he pulls out a copy of Voltaire's Candide. It's his oldest one, and he should maybe do something (like duct tape) about the torn cover. Not now, though. He flips the book open randomly. The highlighter he used in university is not neon yellow any longer but darker, and the handwriting of the notes he jotted down twenty years ago seems just a little strange at first, the thoughts still familiar, though. 

He makes himself a mug of instant coffee, then slumps down on his sofa, feet up. Reads.

The best of all possible worlds. 

***

[23/9/2017, 11:04 a.m.]  
   
'Hi. This is Richard Armitage. I can't answer the phone right now, but if you want you can leave a message and I'll call you back. Cheers.'

'Hiya, mate. This is Orlando. I'm calling to tell you that I got your postcard just now, along with a half hour lecture on why people shouldn't try to keep rhinos as pets. But I reckon I can neither blame that on you nor on the postal service, it's society's fault for thinking people like Gerry should be allowed out in the open. So, yeah, cheers for the postcard and the Ionesco reference. That allowed me, on two different occasions, to rant about him. I'm sparing you that right now cause I reckon your mailbox has limited capacity. I'm counting it as the declaration of war you intended, though. And Beckett's Happy Days will still be shown in London in a month, I got tickets for that for the third weekend in October, if you're still interested. Let me know. Though possibly not tonight cause I will insist on that debate about Ionesco vs Beckett right away if you do, and I happen to happen other plans. So, see you later, yeah?'  
    
[23/9/2017, Whatsapp]

Richard [1:37 p.m.]: Glad it didn't get lost in the mail!

Richard [1:37 p.m.]: The rhino was hard to resist.

Richard [1:38 p.m.]: I'll be home around four. Shall we say seven?

Richard [1:38 p.m.]: And pasta? Tomato, rocket, goat cheese and pine nuts?

Richard [1:40 p.m.]: And do tell me about your plans!

Richard [1:40 p.m.]: In detail...

 

Orlando [2:09 p.m.]: Forget it

Orlando [2:09 p.m.]: Not sexting w you rn

Orlando [2:10 p.m.]: Not on the sidelines of the football pitch

Orlando [2:10 p.m.]: Mirkwood dominates the game, not that there was any doubt

Orlando [2:11 p.m.]: Re: Food - you cook, you choose

Orlando [2:11 p.m.]: I'm easy

Orlando [2:11 p.m.]: STILL not sexting

 

Richard [2:14 p.m.]: I sort of see your point.

Richard [2:14 p.m.]: But only sort of.

Richard [2:15 p.m.]: Two weeks!

Richard [2:15 p.m.]: TWO WEEKS!

Richard [2:16 p.m.]: When's the half-time break?

 

Orlando [2:18 p.m.]: Fuck you, Richard 

Orlando [2:18 p.m.]: I am standing on the side of a fucking football pitch

Orlando [2:19 p.m.]: And I am not getting a fucking hard on, planning a five minute wank

Orlando [2:19 p.m.]: Seriously

Orlando [2:19 p.m.]: Fuck you

Orlando [2:19 p.m.]: Which yes,

Orlando [2:19 p.m.]: Is a promise

Orlando [2:19 p.m.]: Now change the topic or I'll switch my phone off

 

Richard [2:21 p.m.]: Seems like a sensible idea, given the fact that I'm still on the train.

Richard [2:23 p.m.]: I'll tell you about my plans in person, then, later.

Richard [2:23 p.m.]: Is the match worth watching? Or does the other team not stand a chance?

 

Orlando [2:28 p.m.]: Good match, yes

Orlando [2:28 p.m.]: Friendly match between JC and a paradox from Selby

Orlando [2:29 p.m.]: Independent Christian School

Orlando [2:29 p.m.]: You may imagine how much I am enjoying the 8:1 rn. Pretty sure you would as well 

Orlando [2:30 p.m.]: 9:1

 

Richard [2:34 p.m.]: 9:1?

Richard [2:35 p.m.]: I most definitely would.

Richard [2:35 p.m.]: Are the little Christians crying for their saviour already?

 

Orlando [3:05 p.m.]: Sorry for the delay. Match won, celebrations under control

Orlando [3:05 p.m.]: There was a bit of mud bathing going around

Orlando [3:05 p.m.]: Mostly Sean's girls, not mine

Orlando [3:06 p.m.]: Anyway, you still on the train?

 

Richard [3:08 p.m.]: I am.

Richard [3:08 p.m.]: Why?

Richard [3:09 p.m.]: Are you ready to tell me about your plans now?

 

Orlando [3:10 p.m.]: While you are on the train?

Orlando [3:11 p.m.]: Not the most elaborate of plans

Orlando [3:11 p.m.]: 1. Arrive at yours 

Orlando [3:11 p.m.]: 2.a. Fuck you

Orlando [3:12 p.m.]: 2.b. Get fucked by you

Orlando [3:12 p.m.]: 2.a. and b. are interchangeable and/or can be preceded / changed for blowing you

Orlando [3:12 p.m.]: The end

 

Richard [3:14 p.m.]: Excellent.

Richard [3:14 p.m.]: That happens to coincide with my plans.

Richard [3:15 p.m.]: Don't think fucking you can wait til after you've fucked me, though.

Richard [3:16 p.m.]: What's your take on beards, btw?

Richard [3:17 p.m.]: media content in this message

Richard [3:17 p.m.]: I kind of like it, but can shave if you're not a fan of beard burn.

 

Orlando [3:19 p.m.]: Fuck you look hot

Orlando [3:19 p.m.]: Seriously I told you I wasn't gonna sext with you

Orlando [3:19 p.m.]: Stop sending me porn

Orlando [3:19 p.m.]: Asshole

 

Richard [3:20 p.m.]: It's a picture of my face!

Richard [3:20 p.m.]: How does that qualify as porn?!

Richard [3:21 p.m.]: What's going on in your head?

Richard [3:21 p.m.]: Cheers, though.

 

Orlando [3:40 p.m.]: What for, it's your face and that is objectively handsome

Orlando [3:40 p.m.]: /porn

Orlando [3:40 p.m.]: Relatedly:

Orlando [3:40 p.m.]: Is it 7 yet?

Orlando [3:41 p.m.]: Btw I just got the confirmation for the room I booked in London

Orlando [3:41 p.m.]: You're welcome to stay 

Orlando [3:44 p.m.]: No worries if you have other plans though

 

Richard [4.27 p.m.]: Sorry.

Richard [4.27 p.m.]: Am home now, though.

Richard [4.28 p.m.]: Cheers, again.

Richard [4.29 p.m.]: Count me definitely in for the play, I'm really looking forward to that!

Richard [4.34 p.m.]: Can I get back to you on the hotel room, though?

Richard [4.36 p.m.]: Friends of mine who live in London just had a baby, and I'd like to see them that weekend as well.

Richard [4.38 p.m.]: Which doesn't mean no, let me just work out the practical details?

 

Orlando [4:48 p.m.]: No worries 

Orlando [4:48 p.m.]: Open invitation, decide whenever

Orlando [4:48 p.m.]: As long as you don't bring the fucking baby

Orlando [4:48 p.m.]: Or smell of it

 

Richard [5:15 p.m.]: I wouldn't dream of bringing a baby to a date with you.

Richard [5:16 p.m.]: Nor would I want to smell of one.

Richard [5:18 p.m.]: Anyway, thanks, I appreciate it.

Richard [5.19 p.m.]: Am back from the store now and just need to put the washing in and shower and change.

Richard [5:20 p.m.]: Just get onto your bike and come over?

Richard [5:21 p.m.]: I really want to be done with waiting.

 

Orlando [5:27 p.m.]: Smart man

Orlando [5:27 p.m.]: I can do you half six, need to check in at Wellesley to hash out some stuff with Sean

Orlando [5:27 p.m.]: So he won't fucking call again tonight like some NQT in over his head

Orlando [5:28 p.m.]: All right if I stay over yeah?

 

Richard [5:35 p.m.]: I don't know what a NQT is, but you sure make it sound like an insult.

Richard [5:36 p.m.]: Take as much time as you need, I'll be here.

Richard [5:37 p.m.]: And we've got the whole night if you're staying over.

Richard [5:38 p.m.]: I'd like that.

 

Orlando [5:45 p.m.]: Great

Orlando [5:45 p.m.]: Possibly issue a warning to your neighbours or something 

Orlando [5:45 p.m.]: see you in a bit

 

Richard [5:52 p.m.]: I can't really picture myself going over there with an offering of ear plugs...

Richard [5:53 p.m.]: Also I'm quite sure that the little old lady next door is practically deaf.

Richard [5:53 p.m.]: It should be fine.

Richard [5:54 p.m.]: Drive safely.

Richard [5:55 p.m.]: Oh, and wear something I can quickly get you out of!

 

Orlando [5:58 p.m.]: Smooth

Orlando [5:58 p.m.]: Too late tho

Orlando [5:59 p.m.]: Already at the garage. Taking the BMW

 

Richard [6:01 p.m.]: Good. 

Richard [6:02 p.m.]: Not that I mind picking you up in the middle of nowhere when the Yamaha is being a bitch, but today I'd rather not have to.

Richard [6:03 p.m.]: See you in a moment, then.

Richard [6:03 p.m.]: I'm sure I'll find a way to deal with your clothes.

***

Orlando wakes up. Half a second of disorientation - why is he awake, where is he - until the basic functions of his consciousness catch up. He needs to pee, he’s in Richard’s bedroom. 

For a moment, ten seconds maybe, or five minutes, he lies awake, with his eyes closed, his sluggish mind letting his body suss out whether getting up really is a necessity. The bed is warm, he doesn’t want to move, hears Richard breathing steadily next to him. He still needs to pee, though.

He sits up, swings his legs out of the bed, blinks. Where are his sweatpants? It takes an age for his mind to provide him with the required info. He hasn’t got any sweatpants here. He doesn’t need them either. He’s in Richard’s flat, there is no chance of a distraught Mirkwooder showing up at the doorstep unannounced. 

Behind him, Richard turns his head on his pillow. He exhales like some part of him wants to enquire about the commotion but can’t find words while he is mostly still asleep.

‘Just need the loo,’ Orlando says. His hand automatically moves to his throat, warmth and touch providing relief. ‘Sleep on.’

Again, Richard exhales, something like affirmation in that, and doesn’t shift again when Orlando gets up.

Autopilot kicks in for two minutes - down the hall, bathroom, pee, wash his hands - then the sight of his own reflection in the mirror sparks thoughts back into action. A face (even if it’s his own) demands reflection in turn, if not communication. 

Both his hands grasp the smooth ceramic of the washbasin; his body doesn’t trust itself to not just keel over backwards. He watches himself blink. Sleep and physical exhaustion make him feel numb and abuzz at the same time. Even hours later nerve endings are still chasing the thrill of orgasm. He isn’t sore, though technically he should be. He lifts his hand to his shoulder where he should feel a bruise from when Richard slammed him against the wall. Straightening up should be answered by protests from his back. It should remind him that the two shags over the course of the evening both had him on the receiving end. He doesn’t, it isn’t, it doesn’t. 

Endorphin; fascinating thing.

His feet are cold. Comes from standing naked in the bathroom in the middle of the night like some idiot. Bedroom, bed; come on. 

On the way back, he picks his jacket up from the hallway’s floor, his pullover, Richard’s shirt. Autopilot again. This is not his flat, no kids to be a good example to; and Richard didn’t care enough to gather them up during the brief intermission. Food took precedence over cleanliness; Orlando approved.

The curtains are drawn in the bedroom, despite the faint light from the hallway, Orlando is pretty much blind when he reenters the room. He drops the clothes on a chair, turns to the bed.

While his eyes adjust to the darkness, for ten seconds, or a minute, he stands there and looks at the bed, at Richard. Because Richard is nice to look at, his mind is quiet when he does. Because he is still on backup power supply. Because the bedroom doesn’t have cold tiles.

Richard hasn’t moved since Orlando left, but after a minute, or ten seconds, he exhales again. Another wordless question that probably translates to ‘why are you standing in the middle of the room like a demented stalker’. Only more polite, because it’s Richard.

Orlando responds with a hum, low in his throat, gets back into bed, under the covers. He settles on his back. The heavy fabric of the duvet stored his body heat, or maybe it’s Richard’s. He doesn’t usually get up during the night. His brain keeps sending the same misdirected message now - stayupstayupstayawakestayawake - even though he doesn’t have to be anywhere, certainly doesn’t have class in an hour.

He stares at the ceiling, or into the darkness above him, waits for his thoughts to settle again, like dirt at the bottom of brackish water.

Next to him, Richard shifts, onto his side, facing Orlando, closer than before.

‘All right?’ he asks. His voice is heavy from sleep, there in that deep quiet darkness where Orlando wants to be again as well. Under the duvet, he reaches out, Orlando feels his warm hand on his hipbone, fingers soft on his naked stomach. His own comes to join it there, partly covering Richard’s.

‘Yeah,’ he says. Closes his eyes. ‘Go back to sleep.’

***

Bernard is pretty sure that he would have made a great 19th century entrepreneur. He is not kidding himself; inventing the light bulb or, say, the car, that would have been a little out of his league. Although in comparison to what one has to do today, it seems rather easy - Bernard can barely turn his computer on without it threatening immediate self-destruction.

But he thinks that he would have made a great antagonist from a Dickens novel. He wouldn’t employ chimney sweeps because for one thing, JC has not enough chimneys to keep him in business, for another the kids will get dirt everywhere and who would clean that up, and thirdly, he supposes what with youths today being rather on the chubby side, most of them would get stuck up there anyway. 

No, but he would make a fine benevolent factory owner. A top hat is a splendid fashion item and Bernard really rather roots for it to come back one day. In addition to that, he already treats his classes, especially his first to fourth forms, as little assembly lines. In this year alone, he has gotten them to produce 

\- ten board games, themed ‘Wordworth’s Game of Life’. Eight of them are very fancy, if one has an affinity for copious amounts of glitter, one looks like it was made by a blind monkey with no hands, and the last is shaped like two penises, which in Bernard’s opinion is a slightly questionable interpretation of that famous line of ‘Daffodils’ - “Poet could not but be gay”.

\- twenty five windchimes, in a rather liberal interpretation of Frost’s autumn poetry,

\- twenty three Halloween costume sets for pirates, although three of them are slightly damaged after his second form acted out scenes from ‘Treasure Island’ with them and the cardboard swords didn’t prove to be as solid as Malcom Rutherford’s skull,

\- fifteen sock-puppets designed after Shakespeare characters. That, Bernard has to admit, is a line of production that won’t go into another year, considering the slightly poisonous odour in third form all the way through. The majority of the blame has to be placed with him, of course. He should have made it clearer that they needed to wash the material for their puppets first.

Bernard has yet to open up a shop on etsy to sell the fruits of his charges’ labours. But again, his lack in computer skills is in way of progress. Shame.

***

Dominic supposes it is his own fault for entering one of Gerry's first form bio classes without announcing himself first. He doesn't even remember what he wanted because for the last half hour he has been forced to sit between a tiny fat kid and a 6'2" crazy Scot, watching Doctor Who. Right now the programme is paused because Gerry and his  ~~friends~~ pupils are discussing whether or not the Cybermen can be classified as humanoids or not.

Deletedeletedelete, is all Dominic thinks on that matter and really wishes there weren't 27 children between him and the door.

***

Sure, it has been a while that Bradley went to JC himself but he thinks kids have gotten weirder since his time as a pupil?

Yes, there was this one time when he spent half the day without trousers in class because he spilled his best mate's tomato soup over it over lunch and didn't have time to go change because he actually had spent 40 minutes of lunch break making out with Angel Coulby in the bikeshed.

And yes, there was this one time when he missed double maths with Mr Bana (Eric. ERIC, he is your peer now, Bradley, Jesus.) because he was stuck in the oak tree behind Erebor because he was trying to get to a stray balloon that got caught in one of the upper branches. Lower Six Bradley James did not yet have altitude sickness or whatever that thing is called when the fire brigade has to pick you out of a tree crown.

And yeah, there was that time when Colin and he skived to go down to Paris for Park Asterix. They only made it to Leeds where they (okay, Bradley, Colin was better at hiding behind convenient pillars) got caught by Mr Bean err Sean.

And okay -

Actually, thinking about it, JC's kids these days aren't all that weird, Bradley reckons.

***

'Mate, I need to ask a favour,' Gerry whispers to West. His whispering voice is not as quiet as he maybe thinks it is; Dom is sitting two seats away and can hear him clearly. But their table is at the end of the staff room and Christopher's monologue about Culinary Tuesday or whatever it is called has effectively tranquilized everyone but Sean whose face for once looks more thunderous than Orlando's.

'Maaaate', Gerry reiterates and pokes West.

West puts down the box of matches that Dom put into their candy box two months ago (he got it in a strip club from a stripper named Sugar, so that makes sense) to look at Gerry.

'Yes?'

Gerry beams at him and pulls an A3 sheet of paper out from under his assortment of bio books and the half dead primrose he keeps trying to gene-mutate.

'I am thinking of getting some ink done. A tattoo, mate. Not ink, like for a pen. Though it would be belter if I could produce that, like a squid, wouldn't it?'

'You want to be a squid?' West asks, his voice actually rather quiet. 'I advise against that.'

Gerry tilts his head, then shakes it, then nods.

'If I had to choose a creature from the sea, I'd either chose a squid or a shark.'

Personally, Dom thinks only Poseidon is a valid choice there, but West doesn't seem to think that either. He just looks at Gerry and waits for him to get back on track. Honestly, Dom admires his faith in humanity and Gerry in particular. Dom loves the guy but waiting for Gerry to get back on track on his own is about as realistic as handing a boomerang to a drunk toddler with no spacial awareness and expect the thing to come back.

'Ahanyway,' Gerry says, miraculously, after having been distracted by Sean's spontaneous rant about Culinary Tuesday that would have made Marc Anthony proud.

'I think I should get a tattoo on my back, and I want to see how it looks there first. Do me a solid and pick a Sharpie and draw it on for me?'

As requests in the middle of a staff meeting go, this is on the weirder side. West's face doesn't show any reaction at all, again he just looks at Gerry. Gerry in turn holds out his A3 sheet with, what Dom supposes, must be the tattoo design.

Then something very rare happens. West's face makes a smile. His eyes won't leave the paper.

'I really advise against that.'

Dom really needs to see that drawing.

***

[29/9/17, 6:15 p.m.]

“Hi, this is the voicemail of Sean Bean. Feel free to leave a message after the beep or call again later, in case of emergency, please call Jackson College under 01904 667700.”

Hello Sean, Viggo here. I'm at the supermarket and I really just wanted to ask whether you want me to bring beer tonight. I'll just buy some, okay? And they have butter on sale. I'm buying some for you as well. One can never have enough butter I suppose. Anyway, I will be at Wellesley around eight, but we'll have to check in on Arnor every half hour or so, just so you know, cause a house without house mother or head of house is maybe even more dangerous than West's flat. Oh, did you know that Gerry and Eric have invited themselves over to West's for a MacGyver Marathon tonight? In case you didn't, this was your public safety announcement. Anyway, I'll see you in a bit for kickoff.

***

In its head of house's attempt to upend 'Europe's horrible reliance on fucking Christian holidays', Mirkwood House has always been very prolific when it came to alternative festivities.

On September, 30th however, Palm House really beats Orlando's bunch of little heathens easily. It is Chewing Gum day in the USA, and Matt, husband of Palm's head and thus somewhat the Prince Philip to its queen, announced a housewide bubble blowing competition.聽

Naturally, Matt comes in first in 2017, his fifth victory in a row.


	5. October, November 2017

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here's what happened in JC in October and November 2017.

(written by noalinnea)

It takes Viggo the better part of an hour, during and after dinner, to deliver his fiery speech on shaking up routines and the importance of not becoming a creature of habit entirely and flying on autopilot at all times. Eric simply listens, quite content with the world at large, and eats a generous helping of spaghetti alla carbonara and two slices of the delicious Danish butter cake Viggo has made in the afternoon with part of the six pounds of butter he’s bought the day before when shopping without him. After dinner they share half a bottle of wine and look at the pictures Viggo has taken during their trip to Greece and now finished sorting and editing. They almost end up having sex on the couch but when they discover that neither of them knows whether or not they have locked the door that’s a good enough excuse for taking things to the bedroom.

It’s good, unhurried, with Viggo straddling his thighs; Eric rocks up into his heat slowly, slowly, for what feels like half an eternity until Viggo breathes his name and asks him to come with him, a request he’d never refuse. They stay in bed and talk afterwards, one hour, two, at some point Viggo gets up to get them another glass of wine from the living room and almost spills it when he slides back under the covers next to Eric. When they finally turn off the lights Eric thinks fleetingly that Viggo’s side of the bed doesn’t feel very different at all, really, but drifts off into sleep before he can voice his thought and question Viggo’s concept. When he wakes up again it’s because Viggo is climbing over him and rolling him back onto his side of the bed. 

‘I can’t sleep,’ he explains, sounding apologetic and a bit dispirited, too, and Eric reaches out and pulls Viggo’s body against his, Viggo’s back coming to rest against his chest. He places a soft kiss onto the nape of his neck and momentarily tightens his embrace when he says: 

‘Just go to sleep, we’ll move the bed to the other wall tomorrow, hm?’

***

On the first Sunday in October, Wellesley Hall's main common room is packed with little people. About every first and second former both from Wellesley and from Mirkwood sits (or in a lot of cases, lies) on the floor, and there are at least half of Sean's A Level pupils present as well.

Sean sits on the couch near the window, Orlando next to him. Every twenty seconds or so, the room erupts in high pitched laugher (and Sean's booming dark one right along), even Orlando is smiling so much that Viggo would probably call an exorcist, and two hours later everyone leaves with sore cheek muscles and a brain full of more or less useful historical tidbits.

That is what Horrible History Night at Wellesley is all about, after all.

Mind, Sean could do without having the RAF song stuck in his head for the next hours. But that's what you do for the education of the next generation (and for hearing your sombre best mate choke on his laughter).

***

There are just two books on the book club's list for the first Monday in October. And yet they never make it past the first one. This has little to do with the quality of the one Bernard chose for the evening; classic crime fiction usually is a solid bet.

It's just - and Bernard will admit that without envy - no match for Sean's passion for Bernard Cornwell and his tales of king Alfred and the birth of England. 

So, like all the other members of book club, Bernard leans back, sips from his tea and lets Sean have the stage.

***

Three high pitched screeches that can be heard in Jackson College on October, 3rd:

1 - Dom has to go investigate when, during lunch break, he hears several high noises of disgust from JC's hallway. The reason becomes apparent when he reaches the great stairwell where - to the delighted horror if his classmates - Jona Iberman licks up the entire stretch of the wooden banister right up to the second floor. Dom lets him have his moment, then he sends Jona to the school nurse to remove the splinter from his tongue.

2 - In the afternoon, Tobias Dreyer sounds like a squirrel on speed when he races over the rugby pitch. The reason for his unusual speed as well as the screech is Boris who is right on his heels chasing him. His own fault; Karl told his team that there will be no slacking today.

3 - Gerry is the third one to utter a very unmanly yell when he sees Eric entering the Pony in the evening. Eric spent the afternoon grading papers, which meant chewing on the back of his red biro which (as per usual) caused the thing to break. He has red ink all over his mouth, traces of it smeared at the corners. Gerry points at him, grips his chest in a very dramatic fashion (even for his standards) and yells, 'Vampire! Vampire!' loud enough for even the old men in the dart corner to look his way.

***

When Eric returns from cricket practice, he goes for a shower and only then notices Viggo on his living room floor. Viggo has his eyes closed and headphones in. Eric is poking water out of his own ears while he watches him doing a very poor impression of Beth on the carpet. Viggo is many things, but a natural gymnast is not one of them.

After Viggo has finished what Eric thinks must have been trying to dislocate his shoulder, he exhales in a superlong sigh and opens his eyes. Aware of the headphones, Eric just grins and waves and mouths 'what are you doing?'.

A little too loud, Viggo replies, 'Stress relief yoga!' which makes Eric's brows arch up in their own version of face gymnastics.

'You what?' he responds, his grin growing broader.

Viggo closes his eyes again and folds his legs under himself, puts his hands together like in prayer.

'Fucking Orlando,' he says, not very zen-like. 'Fucking pain in the neck.'

Eric shakes his head by which he dislodges some more of the water and turns to make himself a pre-dinner snack.

***

Karl thinks that Orlando, had he not decided to study one of the most pointless things in the universe, would have made half a decent dog trainer. 

Today alone, he sees him in five different situations where one could very easily substitute JC's pupils for dogs. 

He's looking for Orlando during first period, for instance, and finds him teaching not in his room but in the one assigned for second form generally this year. When Karl opens the door, he walks into a wall of stink - it can't be described any other way - and half the kids seem close to unconscious; all of them sitting there with either their ties or parts of their shirts over their mouths. Karl temporarily forgets what he was there for in order to make a loud and very eloquent retching noise. Without looking away from his blackboard where he is writing some philosophical bullshit, Orlando asks him to close the door, please, otherwise the lovely smell that Jeremy Porter and his stink bomb graced the class with would diffuse.

And seriously, pushing a dog's nose into the pile of shit he left in the corner to teach him not to do it again? Bit old school, but still textbook dog training.

The second and the third incident are actually more Dom than Orlando and they happen during lunch. The kitchen staff decided on handing out mini Mars bars for dessert (in their infinite wisdom and quest for a healthier student body), and Dom encourages some first formers to do some tricks and promises them Orlando's Mars bars as a reward. They don't exactly, sit, bark, and roll, but it's close enough.

The fourth time happens during recess when some first former has a massive strop in front of Orlando. Again, no rolling in the grass is involved, but he comes very close to it as he yells, then shouts, then balls his fists, then cries, then actually turns around in a circle, all the way going on and on about something being incredibly unfair or something. Orlando, with his arms crossed in front of his chest, is massively unimpressed, and when the boy finally comes up for air to breathe, he just asks 'You done now? Then go and do as you're told.' Because those who bark definitely don't bite; dogs and kids alike.

The fifth time happens when Karl comes twenty minutes late to his own rugby practice, and all of his players are panting, tongues lolling out, from the warm-up Orlando put them through, standing in for him. Orlando hands Karl back his whistle, shrugs and says, 'If you tire them out, they are quieter at night' before he leaves.

Dog trainer, 100%. Karl still wouldn't leave Boris with him, though.

***

[8/10/2017, 5:21 p.m.]

'Hi. This is Richard Armitage. I can't answer the phone right now, but if you want you can leave a message and I'll call you back. Cheers.'

'Hiya, mate, it's Orlando. I'm sorry but I gotta cancel tonight. I'm actually in Leeds at the hospital right now, though I'm not sure whether it's yours. Well, not this one specifically anyway, since I'm at the Dental Institute; emergency. Not mine; sorry, might've started with that. We're on a field trip and one of my idiot kids decided to charge head first into a lamp post. He knocked half of two front teeth out. So, I'm stuck here for the time being. Anyway, sorry about tonight. If you want to reschedule, give me a ring. My internet is down for some reason, so I'm not on Whatsapp. - Yes, sorry, that's me. I'm with Gavin. - I'm his head of house, yeah, I'm acting in loco parentis. - Gotta go, Richard. Talk to you soon.'

***

When Viggo enters Eric's bedroom, he finds him lying in the middle of the bed, dressed just in a towel.

'Is that a blatant attempt to seduce me?' he asks with a grin.

Eric, who uses his bent arm as a pillow, responds in kind.

'Blatant would've been sans towel. I'm trying my hand at being coy.'

Viggo's cackle is possibly loud enough to alert the entire floor. He puts his glass of wine on the cupboard next to the door, then he sits down on the bed, right knee lightly nudging Eric's side. Eric isn't really moving, but his eyes drop down to the t-shirt Viggo is wearing, then go back to meet Viggo's gaze again, and his eyebrows arch in a silent suggestion. Always happy to go along with sensible criticism, Viggo pulls the shirt over his head, and Eric's hand closes over his knee, giving it a light squeeze.

It's not actually what Viggo had in mind when he came into the room - he was honestly just looking for his Gandhi biography - but hey, you only live once, and kissing is a lovely pastime for a Saturday evening. So he wets his lips, tastes burgundy on them and then Eric, when he leans down for a light kiss. Eric's hand comes to rest in the back of his neck, and when his other touches Viggo's side, Viggo moves to straddle him. Eric's hand stays there, of course it does, even as Viggo is already where Eric wants him. Viggo isn't really ticklish, except for behind his ears, but that place - just above his hip, below his ribs - is this vulnerable, exposed spot, and Eric's hand fits there perfectly, and who says that this can't be one of Viggo's top five erogenous zones?

He sighs quietly into the kiss, nips at Eric's lower lip, and in response, Eric's grip tightens momentarily, then loosens again, his thumb stroking along the underside of Viggo's lowest rib. Viggo loves that touch, loves how it never fails to go both straight to his heart and his dick, and with the two of them sharing most of the available blood, it always leaves him feeling pleasantly dizzy for a moment.

His response is delayed by a couple of seconds because of that, but then he responds in kind. He brings his hand between them and rests it on Eric's chest, the tips of his fingers just gracing Eric's collarbone, just how Eric likes it, and there is the strong thudthudding of Eric's heart against his palm and -

Eric starts to laugh into the kiss.

Viggo huffs, his own smile immediate, and continues kissing him because if he stopped every time Eric giggled, they'd never have sex. But this time it's different, it's not just a short burst of amused happiness, but Viggo feels Eric's body trembling under him in the attempt to control his laughter.

Viggo pulls back, pushes himself up a little bit with his hand on Eric's chest. Eric starts laughing in earnest in response, and once he let go, he isn't able to stop. Viggo sits back on his heels, Eric still kind of trapped under him, and as always Eric's laughter is so infectious that Viggo finds himself grinning broadly even as he shakes his head.

'What is it with you?' 

Eric shakes his head and needs twenty seconds at least before he can speak in between hiccupped laughter.

'Orlando,' he then says, and his laughter starts anew when Viggo, instead of grinning, pulls a face.

'I'm thinking of having sex with you and you're thinking of Mephistopheles?' Viggo asks and lightly hits Eric's chest.

Catching Viggo's wrist, Eric brings his hand to rest on his chest again while he shakes his head.

'Seriously, mate, you so missed out this afternoon,' he manages to say but Viggo's palm on his chest sets him off again into a new fit of giggles.

Eric spent the afternoon in the company of Orlando, Sean, Miranda, Kiele, and Emma, and a handful of paramedics for the yearly refresher course on first aid. While Viggo remembers that one time where Sean managed to chat up one of the female paramedics whilst John was lying on the floor, pretending to have a heart attack, he is pretty sure no first aid course he ever attended warranted a two minute laughing fit.

Still, he waits patiently until Eric has himself under control again, sniffs and wipes tears from the corners of his eyes.

'"Breathe, you fucking piece of shit, breathe"', he says in a perfect imitation of Orlando's voice as he tugs at Viggo's wrist as if to get him to perform chest compressions. 'And yet the dummy failed to succumb to his serenading.'

Viggo shifts his hand a little so that it comes to rest directly over Eric's heart.

'A plastic human has no concept of fear, so there is little chance Orlando can find a way to communicate with it.'

Eric's thumb presses against his pulse point.

'Oh, he communicated with Bernie all right,' he says with his grin broadening again. 'He broke all his ribs and killed him.'

Viggo crosses himself and looks at the ceiling. Eric bursts out laughing again.

***

Like every other Sunday for the past year, Miranda and John chat over breakfast. But while the chats before John's retirement actually had them in the same room together for that, it has become their little post summer tradition to be in different countries and still toast on the new week. Since John is currently not only not in the same room, but not on the same continent, Miranda and Cate raise their cups of freshly brewed coffee to his evening beer.

While Miranda fills John in on the latest gossip (and there are some things that even Cate seems to hear for the first time), John then tells them all about the wonders of Melbourne and what fine a hotel Eric's sister is running there. Miranda and Cate are both very interested in John befriending her more closely and getting his hands on some embarrassing Bana family pictures.

***

This is what JC's heads of house did at 9.09 p.m. on October, 9th:

The head of Mirkwood sits in The Library, his house's lower common room together with five pupils from his A-level. Originally it was just he and one blue haired girl for a conversation that should have maybe been about problems at home but really was about street art, and when 9.09 came around it had developed into a discussion about aesthetics in general.

The head of Wellesley is getting his arse kicked by two third formers on the brand new (well, second hand) foosball table they just installed in Bada.

The head of Erebor is trying to explain to a very obstinate first former that there really is no necessity to acquire Wellington boots for ducks.

The head of Palm is in her second hour of teaching hands on first aid basics in The Swamp, Palm House's main common room. At 9.09 two first formers have most of their heads wrapped in bandages and five second formers lie on the side in a safety position that makes them look like they were shot in the middle of a yoga class.

The head of Arnor is looking at holiday snaps from about half of his house, not in the least regretting his somewhat naive suggestion to "just show me some" that he uttered three hours ago. Privately he still thinks his photographs from Greece beat them all.

Emma sits on her couch with a glass of wine and a good book, very happy with her solitude.

***

'So, your fellow seems pleasant enough,' Gerry says because he is a suicidal person. 

As someone frequently blowing stuff up while perfectly aware that it is at the chance of seriously injuring himself, Dominic is not saying that lightly. Or maybe Gerry just recently turned into one of those adrenaline junkies who would bathe with tigers or whatever it is they do.

When Gerry gets no reply at all, he looks at Dominic with arched eyebrows, as if seeking guidance as to how to proceed. Dominic mutely shakes his head in warning. Gerry ignores that. Of course he does.

'Oi, Orlando,' he says, even louder than before.

Orlando finally looks up from his task of stapling photocopies to look at Gerry leaning in the doorframe. Dominic slowly edges closer to the copying machine to be able to use it as cover if need be.

'Sorry?' Orlando asks and it certainly doesn't sound like he is sorry but like Gerry will be in a very short time.

'I said "your new boyfriend seems likeable",' Gerry the Suicidal repeats. His short glance to Dominic and the accompanying wink make Dominic shuffle closer yet to the copying machine.

Orlando's brows draw together in mind confusion and he, too, glances at Dominic, then at Gerry (still grinning expectantly), and back to Dominic.

'How nice for you,' he says to Dominic in his autopilot politeness that regularly disturbs the fuck out of Dominic. 'Congratulations.'

With a nod and without waiting for Dominic's reaction, he takes his photocopies and leaves the room, joining Sean on the corridor who is quietly snickering into his mug of tea. Dominic's baffled gaze follows him before he shakes his head. Gerry pats him on the shoulder as he nudges him away from the copying machine, so he can use it.

'He is a doctor, too,' Gerry says conversationally, like nothing has happened. 'Good catch.'

Dominic, who by now has given up on this conversation to ever make sense to him, shakes his head again.

'Thanks?'

***

On Wednesday afternoon, a very loud noise shakes the foundations of Mirkwood House. It is the sound of second former Jeremy Needham tumbling down the stairs. He is accompanied by seventeen books - thankfully all paperbacks - which bury him under an avalanche of knowledge. Literally.

The sole reason why Orlando doesn't growl at Jeremy for being a. clumsy and b. unnecessarily loud - after he checked whether Jeremy was still alive under the mountain of paper - is that the unfortunate boy was transporting Orlando's latest purchases from the bookstore which arrived in the mail this morning.

***

In Wellesley's smallest common room, reserved for sixth formers, a couple of Wellies have a very serious conversation about staging an intervention for their head of house who clearly has a betting problem.

Everyone, they agree, knows not to bet with Mrs Blanchet (news travels), so in Mr Bean's case it is sheer negligence that for the third time this school year he has to take her out to dinner.

Now, the majority of sixth formers present couldn't care less about Mr Bean's purse, but whenever he is out, he leaves Mr Bloom in charge. And clearly that is a violation of human rights or something.

***

Kiele loves her job. 

Sure, there are moments when she curses kids (say when a couple of Palmers, lead by Yusef Adebisi, decide to kidnap Erebor's pet ducks, not taking into account that they will shit all over their room), parents (say when she gets the third call this month from Mr Adebisi to check on his son's academic progress), and colleagues (when Gerry decides to play the knight in shining armor for Miranda and steal the ducks back which somehow ends with all of them, including Gerry, in the pond).

But during her two day field trip with her bio club kids to Northumberland pretty much everything went wrong. They had shitty weather, didn't see half the birds they hoped to, had no heating in their accommodation and now the bus broke down half way back. But the kids? Never complained, had great fun with the mountains of blankets they had instead of heating and now, stranded on the road while they wait for someone from AA to arrive, they start to sing dirty pirate shanties.

Kiele loves her job.

***

Eric is at the beach. Somehow, he is sure it is Brighton. Of course it is; nothing like Melbourne beaches. He hears the splashing of waves, feels sand underneath him, soft but not sticking to his naked feet or his back. He looks into a blue sky and turns his head; there's the sea and an endless stretch of sand, the sun dancing on it. It's a beautiful day, and there is no one around at all. He knows that this means he is probably dreaming. Never mind. The waves continue splashing. If he stretched out his feet, they could lick his toes.

There are eighty-two bathing boxes, he says. 

Is that so? Viggo answers.

Eric hums. He smiles when he feels Viggo's hand on his stomach. He shifts onto his side, the endless beach stretching in front of him. Viggo shifts with him, and his body is solid and warm behind him, they are alone on Brighton Beach, and Viggo's hand rests on his hip, strokes down his thigh.

My favourite, Eric says, is the peach coloured one. Peach and pistachio. Makes me want to lick it.

He feels Viggo's smile against the back of his neck.

You're so weird, Viggo says. 

The fondness in his voice is warmer than the sun.

Eric closes his eyes, and his senses zone in on the feeling of Viggo's mouth against the nape of his neck, nuzzling and kissing, biting lightly as Eric bends his head forward to give him even better access. Viggo strokes up his thigh again, over his hip and his hand lingers on Eric's stomach for a moment, like he's waiting for something. Eric is too lazy for impatience, but the delay still makes want stir in him, causes him to shudder and exhale in a quiet moan. 

We're naked, Eric says.

He only just noticed, is a bit amused by that, and so is Viggo. Eric feels his chuckle. Lips trembling against his skin, his chest vibrating with laughter against Eric's back. 

Apparently so, Viggo says.

Eric's skin feels warm, there is sun, and the sea, and Viggo, and he covers Viggo's hand with his own and pushes it down to his dick. Viggo's hand finds him hard, and the rest of Eric's body goes slack. Want pools in his stomach. Viggo's laughter seamlessly turns to a low moan, and Eric feels his erection against the small of his back, and his thoughts are like the few scattered clouds in the sky. Viggo strokes him, pushes against him in the same slow fashion, murmurs sentences into his skin that Eric's mind can't process for a while, that don't seem to matter for a while, until they filter through, word by word.

He opens his eyes. It's dark. The digital clock on the nightstand shows a four and a thirteen. Viggo's hand around his dick twists, and Eric blinks. He feels Viggo's heavy erection against the small of his back, warm dampness of precome slick against his skin with the next slow thrust. He turns his head and blinks again as his eyes try to focus on Viggo's face above him in the darkness. The moonlight is faint and thinking seems a foreign concept.

Viggo leans down and gently brings their foreheads together. 

'Close your eyes.'

Eric blinks his eyes shut, and instantly they are back on Brighton Beach. Sea, sand, sun. He knows it, doesn't need to open them again. It doesn't matter anyway. He keeps his eyes shut, exhales with a moan, lets go of the last bit of conscious thought that still kept him from being taken over entirely by sensation. He lets himself be rolled onto his stomach, feels his legs being nudged apart, and it's just this, just now, just what Viggo wants to do to him, with him. It's soft kisses and roaming caresses, incomprehensible words and fleeting touches, and for a while Eric is swimming in pleasure, feels dizzy from it, and, like a drowning man desperate for oxygen, his mind is teetering on the brink of wakefulness - 

'Sleep on,' Viggo murmurs into his ear. The tip of his dick is hot and wet against Eric's entrance. 

'Just go back to sleep, mate,' Viggo says.

He pushes in.

Eric's mind dissolves into nothingness. There is just Viggo, Viggo, Viggo -

He opens his eyes again, later. It is still dark. The clock on his nightstand shows it's 5:20 a.m. The sheet underneath him is damp. Viggo still lies fully on top of him, his dead weight holding him down. He is still inside Eric, dick soft now, and his breath is slow and even in sleep against Eric's shoulder. He mumbles something in his sleep when Eric shifts and Viggo slips out and comes to rest on his side without waking. 

Eric gets out of bed and finds his way to the bathroom in the darkness. He cleans himself up, brings a washcloth for Viggo and a dry towel against that damp spot with him back into his bedroom. Viggo still doesn't wake when Eric wipes him down, but shifts onto his back just as Eric drops the damp cloth to the floor. His arm, open in invitation, closes around Eric's shoulder when Eric settles down next to him again, and he buries his face in Eric's hair.

'Peach and pistachio, hm?' he mumbles.

'Brighton Beach,' Eric says against his skin. 'I'm telling you.'

***

In Sean's defense, when he knocks at Orlando's door late on Sunday afternoon, he really is set on helping Orlando put up the new shelves for his books. Even though he just came back from a (victorious) match in which his girls annihilated a team from Leeds and Orlando has bought the shelves months ago and just put them in a corner to collect dust, so they aren't technically new anymore anyway.

But good intentions and all that.

Orlando opens and while he is appropriately dressed for the intended work (in somewhat washed out slacks and a grey t-shirt that has "Mirkwood Pride '06" in faded letters on it), he is also deeply engrossed in a book that Sean is pretty sure came from the bottom of one of the haphazard piles littering his living room floor. He doesn't even look up from the page but gestures Sean in blindly, saying that Karl is already there.

Sean finds Karl in the living room, holding a hammer in his right hand. He seems like he has forgotten about it, though, and about its purpose. Because Boris is napping in front of the unassembled shelf in the corner while his owner sits on the couch and his eyes are firmly fixed on the telly. 'Bullitt' is on.

Good intentions be damned. Sean gets himself a beer from the kitchen and sits down on the couch as well. After five minutes and a spectacular car chase, he tells Orlando (still standing next to the open door with his book) to come and join them already. It is Steve McQueen, for Christ's sake.

***

***

It was Dominic's birthday on Sunday, a fact that he would have loved to keep secret. But since his birthday somehow coincided with his flat burning down last year - he still maintains that there is no causal link no matter what the insurance companies claim - everyone knows.

Which is he he is actually a little surprised that it is only two days later, on Tuesday, that Gerry stands on his doormat with a crappily wrapped gift.

It contains an assembly kit for a nuclear power station. Gerry's grin could not be bigger when Dominic unwraps it. Dominic looks at Gerry.

'If you put it together right, it explodes!' Gerry says and nudges Dominic's shoulder. 'Open it already, you numpty!'

***

JC's second formers love it when their history teacher spent the evening before with Mr Hill. Sure they all agree that Mr Bean is a great teacher anyway, mostly because he tells great gruesome stories about historical stuff that give you nightmares.

But Mr Hill and Mr Bean together? That normally means hands on history the next day. Like last months when they turned stuffed animals into mummies or two weeks ago when they played chess in the courtyard, using pupils for chess pieces like some French king who employed musketeers did it.

However, it must be said that apparently yesterday Mr Hill had a bad day when it came to creative suggestions (or brought too much wine). Mr Bean spends the most part of the lesson massaging his temples while his class has to pretend they are monks from the middle ages who took a vow of silence and copy page five and six of their history books about life in a monastery.

Well underwhelming, really.

***

Craig comes by Erebor Manor to pick Miranda up for a night out. They are friends, so he offered, nay, insisted that they should head to York for a bit of fun that is not school-related. He is not exactly a worrywart, but he knew he had to do something before Mir will go bonkers. Mind, to get from where she is (mildly eccentric atm) to the capital of crazyville (where the head of Mirkwood and the head of Arnor must be mayors) is still a long way.

Or so he thought. 

When he steps into Erebor's entrance hall, he finds about ten kids there attempting to what Craig is very sure must be line dancing. The kind that you see in old cowboy movies. And Mir comes down the staircase and smiles and waves at Craig. Like the Wild West in her entrance hall was the most normal thing in the world.

Craig may have to kidnap Mir for a couple of days.

 

***

[20/10/2017, 8:21 a.m.]

'Hi. This is Richard Armitage. I can't answer the phone right now, but if you want you can leave a message and I'll call you back. Cheers.'

'Hey Richard, it's Orlando. I just got an email from the Beckett Theatre in London. About seven pages long and reading it fills one with the same dread as Beckett does. Anyway, the gist of it is that half their cast and crew has mysteriously fallen ill and they cancelled next weekend's performances. And it seems like they don't expect all of them to make it since they were exceedingly vague about a new date. As far as I got it, they are sold out till the end of November but want to schedule extra performances to make up for the cancellation, so - [noise in the background; whooping and laughing, some distorted singing is interrupted by Orlando's annoyed sigh. A door is being shut rather forcefully and the noise is cut off] - sorry about that. Some of my colleagues think it is appropriate to celebrate birthdays like we are first formers, apparently; and now I gotta watch Viggo walk around with a crown on his head all day long; great. Anyway. The long and short of it is, Beckett is cancelled and subsequently I won't be going to London. If you're still going to visit those friends of yours, you're welcome to use my reservation for the hotel, if you want. Otherwise, if you stay in York and don't want to make other plans, I have some time on my hand now, apparently. [a door is being opened and someone laughingly calls Orlando's name; some jostling as Orlando is apparently taken by the arm, then shakes his assailant off] Fuck off, Sean; it's not like Vig and I are best mates, so he definitely doesn't want me there. - All right, Richard, gotta go, lemme know about the weekend.'

 

***

When Viggo wakes, his phone informs him that it is 5:21 a.m.. It's pitch dark and the mattress underneath him doesn't feel like his own and smells of leather. He checks his phone again to show him his current location. He is somewhat glad to find that he is apparently not in Northumberland or in heaven. The former happened two years ago after a birthday party that got sliiightly out of hand and ended with him an Bernie piss poor drunk on a Northbound train; the latter, well, Viggo does expect to wake up in some otherwordly place at some point or another, but he isn't that old yet.

His phone says he is still in JC, though. When he tries zooming in on the specifics, it fails to connect to the internet. Which is annoying but definitely a sign that he isn't currently in Arnor House.

With a bit of a groan he gets himself into an upright position and uses his phone as a flashlight. A framed map of Europe, ca. 1813, a slightly crooked stack of folded tracky bums on a solid dining room table, a football on the hat rack in the corner next to the door. Sean's.

He asks his bladder whether it would like to relieve itself of some of the beer he had in quite the quantity last night. But he must have sleepwalked into the bathroom at some earlier point already.

He flops back down and checks his phone again. No messages, so he flicks through the images in his photo storage - he must've taken a hundred snaps over the course of yesterday, easy. In chronological order they start with the birthday cake some slightly flour-powdered Arnorians proudly presented to him in the morning - he is a bit hungry, he realizes, and thankfully finds his jacket on the floor next to him with half a piece of cake, wrapped in yesterday's newspaper, still in the side pocket. He eats it and while crumbs fall into the hollow of his throat, he looks at the pictures from last night. Gerry's and Eric's pantomime nearly has him choking on his cake, and so does Orlando's face of utter despair in the background. There is a short video of Sean holding a speech, but he aborts viewing it after two seconds. His volume is turned up to the max by default and since Sean still doesn't do indoor voices, he would wake everyone in Wellesley Hall. There are pictures of him with that crooked paper crown, a series of them showing Dom stealing the crown, being chased through the Pony and subsequently tackled to the ground by Karl (who really would do anything for a bag of crisps). There are several of Viggo and Eric, half of them with Bernie 's thumb featuring prominently as he tries to work out Viggo's phone, all of them with the two of them pulling faces. Then there are snaps of Sean and Cate deep in conversation and looking serious while Gerry in the back has Dom slung over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, using him instead of a log to demonstrate the superiority of Scottish sports.

His reminiscing is interrupted by a text message.

Eric [5:43 a.m.]: Hey, if you get up before the kids wake up, I could be convinced to pick you up on my way back from the village. I promise freshly baked bakery goods.

Viggo sends him back a picture of the two of them, cross eyed with their tongues sticking out and holding four thumbs up towards the camera. Then he sets out to find his shoes in the battlefield that Sean calls his flat.

***

It's Sunday afternoon and Dominic is doing what probably thousands of average Brits do in a Sunday afternoon, that is trying to get his miniature nuclear power plant to work whilst listening to Mahler, when there is a knock on the door.

The doorbell isn't out of order, so the knock takes him a bit by surprise. That feeling multiplies tenfold when he opens. Gerry stands there and next to him Al Capony, the little fat Shetland pony that looks like a walking shrub. Al Capony has its left hoof raised and stretched forward and nearly kicks Dominic's shin because it is now in the place where seconds before the door resided.

Gerry smiles the proud smile of a father. Well, a lunatic father of a pony anyway.

'Look what I taught Al,' he says happily and pats the pony's round rump. 'Do you want to come on a walk with us?'

And really, Dominic has no idea why his response is to get his coat.

***

Now, Sean loves being a head of house. But there are just some things that are bang out of order. He ca deal with the knowledge that the upper sixers have sex in the upper common room and he knows that Haley Yonder spent most of last Saturday inside the big (switched off) washing machine because she lost a bet. A beetle infestation in two first formers' bedrooms, the house mother trying to sell him banana bread as regular bread, some of his lower sixers painting a (quite lifelike) poster of Orlando as Nosferatu. Sean can deal with all of that.

But when he sits in his barber shop - the one in the next village, run by an ancient man who possibly already fought in the Napoleonic Wars - for his monthly haircut and self-indulgent shave and three of his upper sixers come in, all swagger and pathetic beard growth, he kind of loses it. It is just lucky that not he but the old man holds the razor and the latter is also almost completely deaf, otherwise Sean's bellowed 'nononono, OUT with you!' might've ended with Sean getting his throat cut.

***

Of all the houses in JC, Emma's is the one that probably still has the most boarders left on the first Tuesday of the autumn holidays. Most of them know to stay well clear of the main common room during the afternoon hours, however. In fact the only two kinds of people under 18 to be found there are the giant suck ups who, even during the holidays, still want to brush up for their English Lit A-Level, and the crazy people who voluntarily choose to take Johnny's drama classes, i.e. the hardcore thespians.

Because it is well known - Emma put up an A4 sheet on the announcement board in the hallway - that there is Shakespeare in the afternoon. Aside from the head of house, Bernard, Paul, and Gina have gathered in the common room and are seated on the comfortable easy chairs (well, Gina and Emma are, anyway) or standing dramatically on the table (Bernard) at some point or other and / or pacing around the room like a trapped tiger (Paul). There is no real reason for this; the first and mandatory meeting of the English Department has been taken care of during the first week of school. No, it's really just an enjoyment of Shakespeare / of being able to hurl eloquent insults at one another (which is pretty much the same thing a lot of the time) that brought them all together.

And the children? Sometimes they are allowed to read a line or two, but mostly they just sit and watch and are - as pupils are bound to be when they accidentally witness their teachers having fun - equally baffled and amused by the performance.

 

***

The first week and a half of 2017's autumn holidays goes by without anyone getting crushed to death by a tree. Which, yes, is something Gerry has been worried about. 

On Wednesday, October, 26th Sean and the remaining girls from his footie team have emergency tryouts to fill up their ranks. This ends with one boy being chosen as goalie. At the same time Kiele encourages some kids of her house to try out their self-made kites. Let's just say rampant football players and pupils who don't look where they are walking but stare into the skies equal a lot of collisions.

On Thursday, October, 27th Miranda and the remaining first and second formers from Erebor Manor indulge in some serious betting that Christopher would probably frown upon. Or maybe he wouldn't. Two of Miranda's pet ducks are set in a race against two of Erebor's best rowers. He who reaches the little island in the pond first wins. It is a clean sweep for the ducks due to the fact that the boat capsizes.

On Friday, October, 27h West gets kidnapped by Gerry to go to IKEA. West really disapproves, although he is indeed in need of a new carpet for his living room since the old one somehow caught fire two days ago. However, he isn't sure why Gerry insists on going to IKEA, why he takes three of their pupils with them or why all four think it is a requirement of West's new carpet that one can sit on it and pretend one is Aladdin.

On Saturday, October, 28th, around five in the afternoon two very, very brave Mirkwooders knock on Orlando's door. Mostly to check whether he is still alive, but also because they want to know whether they can have the keys to the garage and work on Orlando's Yamaha. Orlando opens in his sleeping clothes (black sweatpants, 'Jackson College - Class of 2011' t-shirt, black dressing gown), growls at them, gives them the keys and closes the door again. All without looking up from 'Critical Elitism'.

On Sunday, October 29th, Karl arrives first at the meeting point in the woods. He can't believe he actually beat Beth in their 5 mile race. Turns out, he didn't. She attacks him from the undergrowth and tackles him into a puddle. Her laughter and Boris's excited barking are loud enough for some people in the village to consider calling the police.

On Monday, October, 30th, at 5:30 in the morning, Marianne pushes a sleepy Bernard into the passenger seat of her car and sets off North. Last week they bet that she could get Bernard at least 100 miles from home before Bernard would be able to recite his favourite Julius Cesar speech. They make it up to Edinburgh where they hit a traffic jam on the motorway and the lorry drivers left and behind them get treated to a very gesture-heavy one-person reenactment of pretty much the entire second scene of the third act. Then, somewhat dry-mouthed, Bernard demands coffee and a bagel.

On Tuesday, October, 31th, the same aforementioned brave (suicidal) Mirkwooders go trick or treating at Christopher's door in the village. Surprisingly, they get chocolate Easter bunnies from Dracula.

On Wednesday, November, 1st, 2.34 p.m., Viggo and Eric will fly to Gibraltar for the three day trip that Viggo gifted them with for his birthday. Eric wakes up in the morning to the smell of Viggo's feet in his face and to Viggo (on his back, just the wrong way up in the bed again) reading out interesting facts about Gibraltar from his phone. 

'During World War II, Churchill ordered for Barbary macaques to be imported to Gibraltar to stop them from dying out,' Viggo says, and after a pause adds, 'And every year, on their national day, thirty thousand red and white balloons are set off, one for each Gibraltarian.'

Eric grunts and pushes Viggo's feet off his pillow. With his right foot, Viggo ruffles Eric's hair. Attempts to at least; he mostly ends up patting his cheek with the leathery sole. Eric uses Viggo's pillow to shield his face without having to open his eyes.

'Despite being British, only 7.7 % are members of the Church of England, that's -' Viggo hesitates, calculating, 'not a lot.'

'2310 people,' Eric provides from under the pillow.

'Not a lot,' Viggo repeats, his free hand blindly patting Eric's shin while he continues reading.

'You can get married quicker there than in Las Vegas, takes just one day's notice. Lennon and Yoko Ono got hitched there. Connery twice, even. He isn't my favourite 007, even though "Thunderball" is my favourite Bond movie. Odd.'

Taking the pillow with him, Eric flops over, so they both lie the wrong way up now.

'Roger Moore sucks, Connery is the best, and I'm not having this argument with you again,' he says, yawns expansively and drops the pillow on Viggo's head. 'Wanna get married?'

***

‘We need to talk.’

Dom and Karl look up from a road map / packet of crisps respectively to glance up at Sean, halting in front of their table. Only Orlando, obviously the person Sean is addressing, given the way he looks at him, doesn’t raise his eyes from the book he is reading.

‘Ooh, someone is in trouble,’ Dom singsongs, very much out of tune.

Still not looking up, Orlando pushes his crisps, the ones that Karl has been eyeing, over to Karl. Karl doesn’t hesitate and immediately takes a handful. When he doesn’t do anything else, Orlando finally does take his eyes off the pages, only to stare pointedly at Karl’s hand and the back of Dom’s head. Everyone knows that Karl’s loyalty is very cheap, and so is hiring him as muscle. The hand that is still greasy from Orlando’s crisps connects with Dom’s shoulder since Dom has, wisely, pulled his head out of the way. A minimal smirk on his lips, Orlando returns to his book.

‘Oi!’

Sean doesn’t even need to raise his voice to half the volume he is capable of. And Dom nor Orlando haven’t been Wellies for over two decades, but still both their gazes snap to attention. Hell, even half the Pony’s patrons at the adjoining tables stop talking. Karl guffaws and stuffs more of Orlando’s crisps into his mouth.

‘We need to talk,’ Sean repeats, satisfied enough now to finally sit down on the last empty chair at the table.

‘You know what we agreed on,’ Orlando says, his attention already drawn back to his book. ‘It’s the holidays, so if one catches a kid doing stupid shit, one deals with it on one’s own and doesn’t come bitching to the head of house.’

‘Actually,’ Sean says, voice much quieter now, soft enough even for Karl to almost consider closing his mouth whilst chewing in a sort of reverence, ‘me and Ashley hit a rough patch and I want your romantic advice.’

Both Dom and Karl burst out laughing instantly, but not before Orlando’s face made an expression of disgust. He glowers at Sean. Sean grins at him, sips from his pint, licks foam from his lips.

‘You’re a muppet,’ Orlando says.

Sean shrugs.

‘I’m not the one who fell for that.’

Orlando’s face grudgingly acknowledges that indisputable fact and finally closes his book.

‘Fine, fine, what’s up?’

Before Sean can reply, Karl turns to Dom and holds out his hand.

‘A fiver that one of the Mirkwooders did something insane that Orlando will try and explain away by using some fart from ancient Greece.’

Instead of taking Karl’s hand, Dom flips him off.

‘I’m not taking that bet.’

‘My kids don’t do insane shit,’ Orlando says, but swallows everything else equally predictable to not give Karl the satisfaction.

Karl stuffs more crisps into his mouth.

‘Yeah, right. Like you don’t have a nudist colony in your house.’

‘I don’t.’

Both Dom and Karl look very much not convinced. Sean, however, nods.

‘It’s true. They gave up their stance on no clothes since the temperatures dropped and Orlando forbade them to turn up the heating in their room.’

‘I didn’t forbid it,’ Orlando corrects him without even the hint of a smile. ‘I told them I expected them to pay the difference on Mirkwood’s next heating bill.’

‘Very reasonable of you,’ Dom says. Orlando looks like he is considering to buy another packet of crisps for Karl.

‘Anyway,’ Sean says, ‘it’s not about those two. It’s about something I found on Wellesley Hall’s doorstep this morning.’

‘Was it a dead body?’ Dom asks, again before Orlando can react. ‘Please say it was a dead body.’

‘I found one on my doorstep yesterday,’ Karl says. He lifts one shoulder when the other three look at him. ‘It was a dead mole. Well, half of it. Boris ate the other half.’

‘Or Beth,’ Dom says, preemptively moving out of Karl’s reach.

‘It wasn’t a dead body,’ Sean says, ever patient, and reaches into the front pocket of his shirt, revealing a slightly crumpled note. ‘It was this here.’

‘A piece of paper. Wow,’ Orlando says and couldn’t sound less impressed even if he tried.

Unperturbed, Sean puts his reading glasses on and reads the contents of the note out loud.

‘Our bravery is legend  
No Wellie can compare  
So, hide inside a hedge and  
Of Mirkwood you beware.’

He takes his glasses off again and pushes the note over to Orlando. Dom instantly snatches it away, reads it again and snickers.

‘It was attached to two chocolate Easter bunnies,’ Sean adds. ‘Who had their heads chewed off. You know anything about that?’

Orlando shakes his head.

‘But if two chocolate bunnies have you rattled, then you’d probably better heed the advice the poem offers.’

Karl guffaws again, and Sean gives Orlando a two fingered salute.

‘It’s not the bunnies that have me worried, you idiot. But you do know what my kids think of having their bravery questioned, don’t you?’

Orlando rolls his eyes. Dom, however, nods.

‘Full on war. Everyone knows that Wellesley is the Gryffindor of JC.’ When neither of the others reacts, he adds, ‘Austen is Ravenclaw, Mirkwood is Slytherin and Arnor is Hufflepuff.’

Sean chuckles and nods. Orlando’s steely expression doesn’t move, and it is either a live demonstration of his house’s identity or incomprehension. Karl’s frown is definitely the latter.

‘What?’ he asks.

‘Harry Potter, Karl,’ Dom says.

Karl shakes his head and lifts both shoulders in his usual no-idea-what-you-are-on-about-and-I-don’t-give-a-fuck gesture. Dom looks aghast and at a total loss of words at so much ignorance.

‘Arnor is Watford, Austen is Arsenal, Mirkwood is Millwall,’ Sean translates.

Karl hums in understanding.

‘Fuck you,’ Orlando says. ‘If we’re Millwall, then you’re -’

‘The Blades,’ Sean interrupts. ‘Obviously.’

‘Wednesday. Obviously.’

Sean’s easy grin vanishes instantly.

‘Shut your mouth.’

Orlando doesn’t say anything else but smiles beatifically. It does not reach his eyes. Dom leans over to Karl.

‘Such a Slytherin move.’

Sean’s glower doesn’t falter. Neither does Orlando’s smile, though it does look downright creepy now. After a long moment of this, Karl pushes his chair back noisily.

‘Well, this was fun as usual, lads. I’m gonna beat someone’s ass at darts now.’ He gives Dom’s shoulder a nudge that is hard enough to nearly push him off his chair. ‘Monaghan?’

Dom looks back and forth between Sean and Orlando, then gets up and follows Karl, making sure not to turn his back on the other two too soon.

‘Wednesday, honestly,’ Sean repeats when they are gone and sounds genuinely hurt.

Orlando’s creepy smile makes way for his usual expression of mild general disapproval.

‘That was below the belt. I apologize.’ He gestures at Sean’s by now empty half-pint glass. ‘Another?’

Sean purses his lips but then nods and Orlando gets to his feet. When he returns to their table two minutes later, Sean pulled his copy of Max Scheler’s ‘Nature of Sympathy’ over to himself and has started reading the summary on the back. Both Dom and Karl make sure to avoid their table for the next two or three hours.

***

Dominic isn’t sure when he gave Gerry a key to his place. He must have done, though. Gerry has proven often enough that he is not capable of breaking in (or out) of anywhere, and that includes his bio lab, his own flat and the walk in fridge of JC. 

Still, it must have been when he was terribly drunk or high on some substance he certainly isn’t illegally cooking in the privacy of his own kitchen. Because in any other state than that of being completely off his head, he would have considered the consequences of Gerry having a key to his place. 

When he comes back from shopping on Friday, he finds that Gerry has let himself in. He also brought Tom and they dragged Idris over from his flat across the hall. Tom is raiding Dominic’s fridge and when Dominic enters the living room, Idris is giving him that kind of look that says ‘hey, they are your kids, not mine’. Gerry is sitting on Dominic’s new carpet, demonstrating how Aladdin would’ve been happy to use it as an escape carpet in a bank (or cave of wonders) robbery.

Dominic rubs his forehead, gently pushes Tom out of the way to get to the frozen vodka he has in the freezer and is just thankful that Gerry didn’t bring his pony. At least he hopes he didn’t. He hasn’t checked the balcony yet.

***

On Saturday, most of JC's boarders return from their trips to visit their parents, grandparents, and in some cases odd aunts who decided to open a surfing shop in the Seychelles.

In every house there are different customs as to what to do once one enters. In Wellesley, for example, you yell hello to all people you pass on the way to your room. In Mirkwood, you immediately check in with the house mother, no matter the time of day (or night). In Erebor Manor, that is when you are a first former at least, you first check in with the ducks, if you can find them. In Arnor, you put your stuff away, maybe say hi to your mates, and then you drop by Viggo's.

The pupils who return early on Saturday morning find that Viggo's door is still closed. So they do, what they usually do which is text him - 'Hi Viggo, Victor Rhona here. I'm back :)' or something along those lines. Viggo reads the text when his plane from Gibraltar lands at Heathrow and the first thing he does is (naturally) switch on his phone while Eric next to him is making funny faces to un-block his ears.

The pupils who return around 11:15 a.m. wave at the Falcon pulling into Jackson College's drive. And Viggo rolls down the window and says 'Hello Marsha, how was Dublin?' or something similar.

Lester Woolham and Finn O'Connor who return in the early hours of the afternoon and knock on Viggo's door. Their chipper 'Hiya Mr M' gets corrected to 'uhm, ah, Mr Bana' but the smile on their faces remains. Eric, eating yogurt from Viggo's fridge says Viggo is out buying paint, but he'll relay the message.

Around three, July Milos has her hand already raised to knock on Viggo's door before she sees the usual A5 note stuck there. It is by now rather worn and as per usual somewhat crookedly stuck on with yellow and blue striped washi tape, and it reads 'Over at Mr Bana's'. It's a good thing, too, the announcement because when July knocks at Eric's door, it is Viggo who opens, but he is slightly hard to recognize on account of the left half of his face being white, the exact same colour as the wall. He looks like a ghost (half-ghost, to be accurate) but he grins (his teeth not quite as white in direct comparison) and welcomes July back, paint roller still in hand.

Around five thirty, the note is still on Viggo's door and Eric's door stands open when Jason Franks comes looking for Viggo. Eric isn't anywhere in sight, the windows are open but it still smells of paint when Jason steps inside. He finds Viggo in front of the wall between the kitchenette and the living room, on his knees, painting the bottom half of a half-finished mural. Jason watches for a moment until Viggo sits back on his heels and notices the new arrival.

'Oh, hello. You and Mikael got home all right then?' 

'Yeah,' Jason says, eyes still on the mural. 'Palma was ace. Mr M, why is that monkey riding a tricycle?'

Viggo frowns and looks back at the wall.

'It's supposed to be a macaque on a motorbike, Jay.'

***

Around three in the afternoon, Orlando pushes his chair away from his desk and the dozen or so of open books and even more sheets of paper. He frowns at the screen of his laptop, twelve documents open at the same time - lesson prep, letters to parents, an essay on Plato, various versions of the house calendar till Christmas - and gets up to take a leak. When he looks up from washing his hands afterwards, he has to laugh for the first time today. His hair is a fucking mess; comes from running his fingers through it constantly since noon.

He uses his still damp hands to reestablish some sort of order, then decides he needs a smoke. On his way out he closes his laptop with maybe a bit too much force, and none of the thirteen kids he passes even so much as addresses him.

The weather is sunny outside, a fact that Orlando would have been aware of earlier if he had bothered to open the heavy curtains in his study this morning. Cold, though. He zips up his jacket as he crosses the lawn, walks down the gravel path, round the small assortment of trees to his favourite bench. Sean is sitting there, both hands buried in the pockets of his coat, trusting his lips to hold the cigarette between them on their own. He glances up and nods as Orlando sits down next to him, and Orlando grunts before lighting up as well.

The smoke is hot against the roof of his mouth, the slight wind somewhat unpleasantly cold against his cheek, the sun too bright. Sean steadily exhales smoke through one corner of his mouth, his eyes on the boys from Palm playing rugger too close to the pond's shore. Orlando holds his breath, forces the smoke to settle in his chest; a good example for his thoughts to follow suit. They sit there for the time it takes Orlando's cigarette to burn down to half its original length, then Sean stubs out his on the wood of the bench, rolls it between his fingers to make sure it is really out, puts it into the pocket of his coat, as per usual. He gets up, turns his back to the pond and pats Orlando's shoulder in passing.

'Good chat.'

For the second time today Orlando chuckles, tilting his head back into his neck to blow smoke into the clear blue sky.

***

There is a firm knock on the door, once, twice, thrice.

'Eric!' Viggo shouts without looking up from his phone or removing his feet from Eric's coffee table. 'There is someone at the door!'

'I heard that!' Eric shouts back from the kitchen, his voice definitely loud enough to carry over the sizzling and hissing of the pans and pots. 'Get it, will you?'

Still with his eyes glued to the small screen in his left hand, Viggo uses his right to scratch his belly.

'Can't! Busy! You get it!'

Something clatters in the kitchen.

'Me too! I'm cooking dinner!'

Again, the knock is repeated and maybe it is just Viggo, but this time the three strikes sound impatient.

'Eric! Door!'

Eric cusses in the kitchen, only marginally less loud than before. Then Viggo hears footsteps on the carpet, accompanied by, 'Just so you know, if that burns now, I am still gonna force you to eat -'

The footsteps halt and so does Eric's sentence. From the corners of his eyes, Viggo sees Eric's standing next to the couch, wiping his hands on the towel he stuffed into the waistband of his jeans.

'Busy, yeah?' Eric asks.

'Extremely so,' Viggo confirms.

Eric doesn't say anything more, so for a second or two the quiet music of 'Monument Valley 2' on Viggo's phone is all that fills the room.

It knocks again, and while Viggo's miniature avatar walks on through the bright Escher'esque world, Eric finally gets the door. He sounds surprised when he says hello to the visitor but that still doesn't get Viggo to look up from the screen nor does it diminish the enthusiasm on the doormat.

'Are you Mr Eric Bana?' a cheery man asks, only pausing slightly before the name.

'Yes?'

'Then all the best to you,' says the man, his beaming smile very audible in his voice, 'A very special afternoon, Mr Bana!'

There is rustling and a distinctly floral scent fills the room.

'Err, cheers, I guess?' Eric sounds even more baffled than before. 'Are you sure you got the right - err thank you?'

'You're very welcome!' the enthusiastic man says. 'Have a nice day!'

'Err, yeah, you too, mate.'

The door is pushed shut at the same time that Viggo successfully finishes his level. When he looks up from his phone, he finds Eric still standing next to the door, very pink and purple bouquet of flowers in his right hand and a confused expression on his face. A short ominous melody announces the start of the next level.

'So, someone sent me flowers,' Eric says redundantly.

Responding to the surprise rather than the redundancy, Viggo says,

'There's usually a card, too, isn't there?'

Eric hums, but there's more rustling and the sound of paper being unfolded.

'Mate?' Eric says after a moment, soft amusement where confusion was a moment before.

'Yes, Eric?' Viggo replies and his avatar gets teleported to the tower.

'You ordered me flowers over the internet.'

'Yeah.'

Eric chuckles.

'Why?'

Viggo raises a shoulder and scratches the underside of his foot with his free hand.

'Cause I can?'

Eric's laughter is loud and booming and fills the room with more efficiency than even the (somewhat overpowering) scent of the flowers does.

'They are very pink.'

'Actually, those are the colours of the bi flag,' Viggo says, then scrunches up his nose and looks up, 'Is it just me or is something burning in the kitchen?'

***

Flu season has started at Jackson College. Bernard becomes aware of that when, during third period in his second form, Jeremy Needham sneezes so violently that he falls off his chair.

Bernard waits until he collected himself from the floor, then spontaneously changes his lesson plan for today. The subjunctive is all well and good, but he'd rather find out what creative solutions eleven year olds have when being told to write an ode to the common cold.

He is pretty certain that nothing really rhymes that well with 'Atchoooo'.

***

After hearing that Eric made pizza the other day that brought five Arnorians close to death by food poisoning, Matt and Gerry decide that they should teach him some basic cooking skills. Considering that he comes from a family who runs a big hotel, it is really quite unbelievable that he manages to fuck up even so much as toast. He needs to learn how to cook.

However, this Wednesday will not be the day for it. When Matt and Gerry enter Arnor's common kitchen, they find five people - Eric and four kids, one of them in tears - stand on various chairs, seemingly frozen in place, all with their heads tilted up and their eyes firmly fixed on one of the cupboards mounted over the sink. On the edge of that sit two budgies, looking very sceptical.

Matt, who thinks that anyone who bothers with a pet smaller than a medium-sized alligator shouldn't be taken seriously, backtracks immediately and decides his time is better spend looking for his wife and getting a pub-dinner.

Gerry, on the other hand, is delighted. Technically, it's not allowed to have pets (even birds) in the house, but it figures that in Arnor of all houses this rule is interpreted rather liberally.

Needless to say that it takes Gerry about five minutes until he has one budgie sitting in his palm and the other trying to nest in his hair.

***

(written with noalinnea)

[9/11/2017, 06:14 p.m.]

'Hi. This is Richard Armitage. I can't answer the phone right now, but if you want you can leave a message and I'll call you back. Cheers.'

'Hiya, mate. I hoped I'd maybe be able to reach you in person, but ah, well. I forgot whether or not you're working late this week, but I suppose you probably are. Anyway, I'm calling cause I just finished an essay on death and terror in the works of Ionesco and - believe it or not - didn't hate it. The essay or the references to your favourite idiot. So I thought if you had time, you might be up for a bit of a chat. But never mind, if you're interested, it'll keep, otherwise just ignore this. Pretty sure we can find other things to talk about than that as well. Anyway, talk to you soon, yeah?'

[10/11/2017, whatsapp]

Richard [7:24 p.m.]: Hey you!

Richard [7:24 p.m.]: Sorry that I couldn't take your call, I'd have loved to hear about that article.

Richard [7:25 p.m.]: And to just talk to you, really. Feels as if I'm always working, literally. 

Richard [7:26 p.m.]: Sorry.

Richard [7:29 p.m.]: Maybe we can see each other tomorrow evening or Sunday?

Richard [7:32 p.m.]: I'd like that.

Richard [7:32 p.m.]: Hope you're well? Are your students behaving?

 

Orlando [8:01 p.m.]: Ah fuck, I can't tomorrow night or Sunday

Orlando [8:01 p.m.]: House mother is away visiting family in Manchester tomorrow. And Sunday I'm on for a trip with Sean

Orlando [8:02 p.m.]: Kids are doing well, art club produced some ace sculptures today. Not even phallic shaped. So proud 

Orlando [8:04 p.m.]: How about Monday? 

Orlando [8:04 p.m.]: If that doesn't work for you, I'll reschedule w Sean, I'd rather meet you

 

Richard [8:22 p.m.]: That's tempting but I'd hate to steal Sean's time with you. 

Richard [8:23 p.m.]: I can't Monday, though, I'm leaving for Dublin Tuesday morning and have to go over my lecture again.

Richard [8:26 p.m.]: Damn.

Richard [8:30 p.m.]: I could come over tomorrow, for breakfast or a coffee, if that doesn't interfere with yout duties?

 

Orlando [8:34 p.m.]: Fuck Sean, he's been complaining nonstop about the rain anyway, wet blanket that he is

Orlando [8:35 p.m.]: You can come over for coffee if you want but I'm on duty, so I'm having breakfast with the kids

Orlando [8:36 p.m.]: Tell me about Dublin, can't recall you talking about it before 

 

[11/11/2017, whatsapp]

Richard [8:14 a.m.]: Sorry, I fell asleep on the couch.

Richard [8:15 a.m.]: I'm going to Dublin for a neonatal conference.

Richard [8:16 a.m.]: Didn't I tell you?

Richard [8:16 a.m.]: Preparing that lecture on top of everything else is killing me.

Richard [8:17 a.m.]: Let's do coffee later and I'll tell you more about it. Four-ish?

Richard [8:17 a.m.]: We can talk about Sunday, too, then.

 

Orlando [8:28 a.m.]: On my way to breakfast 

Orlando [8:28 a.m.]: 4 is good

Orlando [8:28 a.m.]: Pony

Orlando [8:28 a.m.]: They have crumble

Orlando [8:29 a.m.]: Sunday - y/n?

 

Richard [8:45 a.m.]: Yes!

 

Orlando [1:49 p.m.]: Nice

 

Richard [1:51 p.m.]: Looking forward to it!

Richard [1:52 p.m.]: I feel a bit bad for Sean, though. Hope he wasn't disappointed?

 

Orlando [2:05 p.m.]: Devastated. Can't function a day without my guiding presence and is weeping into a bowl of icecream as I type

Orlando [2:07 p.m.]: Btw if you see zombies in the village later, try not to run them over automatically. It's kids from Erebor playing dress up. One just scared the shit out of a colleague of mine and he nearly punched his lights out. It was hilarious 

 

Richard [2:09 p.m.]: That means he'll live, I guess?

Richard [2:09 p.m.]: Good. I don't want him to hate me before we've even had a chance to meet.

Richard [2:10 p.m.]: Are the kids that convincing or does your colleague scare easily?

 

Orlando [2:22 p.m.]: Only thing that would warrant Sean's everlasting hate would be if you told him you supported Wednesday

Orlando [2:22 p.m.]: Which would be rather amusing. You wanna meet him and try?

Orlando [2:23 p.m.]: Otherwise he is pretty impossible to rattle

Orlando [2:23 p.m.]: Unlike Gerry, the zombie victim

Orlando [2:23 p.m.]: Mind, the costumes aren't half bad, you can probably judge for yourself later

Orlando [2:23 p.m.]: But Gerry has issues

 

Richard [2:38 p.m.]: You realise I had to google that, right?

Richard [2:38 p.m.]: I was thinking Addams Family.

Richard [2:39 p.m.]: Football connaisseur that I am.

Richard [2:40 p.m.]: Sure that won't be enough to make Sean dislike me?

Richard [2:41 p.m.]: Doesn't mean I'm not game, though. Just maybe not today, if that's alright.

Richard [2:42 p.m.]: I'm really curious about the zombies now, btw!

 

Orlando [2:45 p.m.]: Addams Family? 

Orlando [2:45 p.m.]: I just spat coffee onto my book fyi

Orlando [2:45 p.m.]: Nice one

Orlando [2:45 p.m.]: And that is all right, I'll break you in gently

Orlando [2:45 p.m.]: Just repeat after me:

Orlando [2:45 p.m.]: Glory, glory Man United!

Orlando [2:46 p.m.]: Support the Reds and you're right as rain

Orlando [2:46 p.m.]: And you should be all right; even if we run into Sean, he won't take notice of you anyway. Or of anyone else, including zombies. It's Saturday, so it's just him and his crumble

 

Richard [2:48 p.m.]: Damn, Orlando.

Richard [2:48 p.m.]: Don't do that to me!

Richard [2:49 p.m.]: Not if we're just meeting up for coffee!

 

Orlando [2:51 p.m.]: What did it for you? The coffee spitting, the footie song or my mate's unhealthy fixation with baked goods?

Orlando [2:51 p.m.]: Just asking out of academic interest

Orlando [2:52 p.m.]: Each to their own

 

Richard [2:53 p.m.]: Now I almost spat coffee at my phone.

Richard [2:54 p.m.]: Stop pretending, you know exactly what you did there.

Richard [2:54 p.m.]: I count on you to distract me with both crumble and Ionesco.

 

Orlando [2:58 p.m.]: I honestly have no idea what you mean

Orlando [2:58 p.m.]: But I'm all right with that. Does that mean plans for tomorrow are already set?

 

Richard [3:01 p.m.]: Breaking me in gently.

Richard [3:01 p.m.]: Seriously.

Richard [3:02 p.m.]: Aren't our plans always set?

Richard [3:02 p.m.]: Partly, at least?

Richard [3:03 p.m.]: Which is not a complaint...

Richard [3:03 p.m.]: And I still want to hear about Ionesco.

 

Orlando [3:06 p.m.]: Oh that

Orlando [3:06 p.m.]: I see your point

Orlando [3:06 p.m.]: And duly noted

Orlando [3:06 p.m.]: Don't set your hopes too high, though

Orlando [3:06 p.m.]: I still think Ionesco's an idiot

 

Richard [3:09 p.m.]: That's quite alright.

Richard [3:09 p.m.]: Same goes for me and Beckett.

***

Sean opens the door of his flat with a little less verve than usual, but Viggo is already impatiently rocking back and forth, eager to talk to him, so he doesn't address it. He also forgoes all hellos and how are you's in favour of shoving his phone in Sean's face and saying,

'I just read an article about that Newcastle foundation that supports women and girls to play more football and I was thinking we should really contact them and -'

'Vig,' Sean interrupts Viggo's flow of enthusiasm, and his voice has that low and mellow cadence to it that has always managed to rein Viggo's galloping thoughts to a halt.

Viggo stops talking, frowns, tilts his head enquiringly.

Sean is still holding the door knob in his hand but pushes the door a little more open now, allowing a view inside. Viggo looks past him, into the living area, in its usually state of controlled chaos, to the Sofa. Two girls sit there, sock-clad feet drawn onto the upholstery, one hugging a pillow, one her knees, both in that state of earth-shattering despair that only fifteen-year-olds ever feel. There is smeared mascara on their cheeks and the smell of freshly brewed P.G. Tips in the air.

Viggo's eyes meet Sean's again.

'Maybe later, yeah?' Sean says, a small smile on his lips.

Viggo nods and makes a shooing gesture with the mirror image of that smile.

'Come over for a glass of wine if you want.'

***

'West, West, West!'

'You can stop repeating my name, Gerry. I picked up the phone, and I also am aware of your mid-level emotional distress.'

'Mid-level?! I am yelling at you!'

'For you that is mid-level. Remember that time when you called me and all you could do for the first five minutes were high frequency screeches? I thought I was talking to a bat.'

'Bats use ultrasonic sounds and you can't hear that with your human ears.'

'You don't say.'

'Incidentally, have you ever wondered why they chose the bat as the badass animal for Batman? I mean, in his head he probably sounds all dark and mysterious when he goes all gravelly "I am Batman". But really, none of his human villains should even hear that on account of him talking on too high a frequency?'

'I've lost many a night's sleep over this conundrum. Is that why you're so... more Gerry than normal right now?'

'What? No, don't be a bampot. I'm calling cause I have a legal question for you.'

'I'm not a lawyer. Wasn't it you who once studied law?'

'Technically, yes, but I was drunk most of the time. And I figured if anyone could help me out, it would be you. You frequently do all kinds of illegal crap and never do any hard time.'

'I've never - never mind. What do you want to know?'

'How much time am I looking at for punching a fifteen year old kid?'

'Depends.'

'On?'

'Did anyone see you? Any witnesses?'

'No, why?'

'Then the answer is no time. Just deny it happened.'

'It didn't really happen. Only almost. Jonas Rivers has good reflexes.'

'Okay. Then you're good anyway, aren't you?'

'Aren't you gonna ask me why I almost lamped Jonas Rivers?'

'I figured it was because he is Jonas Rivers. He is fairly annoying.'

'And in your opinion that means that you can -? Have you ever -? No, wait, don't tell me, I don't want to know. It was because he scared the fuck out of me earlier. Have you been outside today?'

'No. I've been... busy.'

'You know that with anyone else I'd assume that means that you spent the morning wanking, right?'

'With anyone else?'

'Aye, with you I'm assuming you were cooking meth.'

'I wasn't doing either. Why do you ask whether I've been outside?'

'The zombie apocalypse has happened!'

'Again?'

'No really this time. I mean, not really. It's kids from Erebor Manor. Miranda for some reason thinks it's dress up Saturday. She claims Craig gave her the idea. I'm serious, she keeps questionable company.'

'Clearly you would know.'

'Yes, I mean, why would she allow her kids to run around the village dressed as zombies and not tell me beforehand?'

'So you could stay indoors and avoid punching teenagers?'

'You're havering, mate. So I could turn zombie as well, of course!'

***

Since Orlando decided to dump Sean in favour of going on a romantic date ('It's not a fucking romantic date, you muppet, I just prefer getting laid to listening to you bitch about the state of the roads all day, so fuck off'), Sean's Sunday is suddenly lacking motorcycles.

Not that he particularly minds that because the roads are horrible this time of the year, and Orlando constantly drives over the speed limit and makes Sean alternately feel like a traffic cop and a scared granny with arthritis. 

So while Orlando is away in York making moony eyes at his doctor ('There are so many things wrong with that concept, I am gonna write you an angry letter about it. You're an idiot.'), Sean decides to spend a lazy day in.

He has breakfast twice, once rather early in the morning when just the kids trying to impress Karl and the other P.E. teachers are in the cafeteria before their morning run, and once rather late when the sleepiheads shuffle in. At two last night Sean yelled at them to turn the bloody lights off, and naturally they are still half-asleep at nine in the morning as a consequence. One of them walks into a pillar because he can't be bothered to keep his eyes open. Personally, Sean reckons that no Sunday can get of to a better start than with a lot of waffles and a little gloating.

Since the weather is surprisingly nice - sunny, even if just below 40 掳F - his girls are practically jumping out of their skin to get some practice in in the late morning. So, he bellows encouragement, his breath forming little clouds, to his red-cheeked warriors whilst standing on the sidelines, his hands cradling a thermos flask of tea.

While he soaks in his bathtub later in order to regain at least some feeling in his feet, he listens to Ashley telling him about her latest adventures in nannying. They both agree that the techniques she uses to pacify toddlers would work just as well on Sean's fifth formers.

In his bathrobe, he tidies up his flat after that for a while, although it has to be admitted that he is not the most efficient about it. Various old copies of 'Four Four Two' and a steaming kettle and some sarnies are much more alluring than the vacuum cleaner. 

After an impromptu nap on his couch (Four Four Twos make for insufficient blankets and he wakes up with cold feet. Again.) and highlights of England v Argentinia, he gets dressed and drops by Arnor House. A girl with disconcerting resemblence to Pippi Longstockings informs him, however, that Mr Bana and Mr Mortensen are busy watching cricket. As Sean is not sure whether that means they really are engrossed in their favourite sport or whether it is a euphemism for sex (and he is on the fence whether Pippi is aware of that), he decides not to take any chances. 

Instead he drops by Mirkwood because he promised Orlando, and when he finds everything in order there - meaning he gets the lukewarm reception any Wellie gets in the trenches of the enemy these days -, he returns to Wellesley Hall where he is invited to join a round of 'Clans of Caledonia' in Waterloo. 

After beating his kids' asses, he helps a couple of his third formers with their maths homework (though the expression 'help' is maybe a bit misleading since Sean has no idea what they are doing) and has just been invited to leave when Viggo enters Loo. He has a glow about him that Sean otherwise would only associate with champagne-drunk brides after their wedding night. This of course means that Sean has to suffer through a quarter of an hour in which Viggo talks animatedly about some cricket match or other (honestly, it is the most boring sport that has ever been invented and Sean would vote for a national ban of it if there ever was a survey), before Sean can finally steer the conversation into the direction of something more meaningful; football.

It's dinner time when Viggo leaves again, and Sean receives a text from Orlando checking in ('Will be back around nine, provided you haven't burned down my house before that') as he crosses the lawn to get back to the main house for some grub. Over dinner (delicious Yorkshire pudding; Sean loves Sundays) he gets into a discussion with some of his A-level pupils about the history of the Long Sword dance, and it's only because Christopher is watching them with growing skepicism from across the room that Sean discourages Peter McMahan and Iwan Sheran to do practical demonstrations with their cutlery.

When he returns to Wellesley, he finds, to his surprise, that his worst hooligans have turned in early due to having had practically no sleep last night. So he sits in the common kitchen and then in Tala to watch the second half of 'Show me what you're made of麓' before he sends the little ones to bed and retires to his flat until he has to do last rounds.

Inner clock always switched on, he wakes up just in time for that after a kip and, yawning, sets to tucking his kids in.

***

When Keesha Bingham looks back on her life so far - all long twelve and a half years of it - there are few days as game-changing as November, 13th 2017. And that includes the day her hamster Pishposh died because he tragically choked on a piece of pineapple and the day her mom broke her foot, somewhat clumsily stumbling over one of Keesha's Transformers, leaving Keesha to, scandalously, having to go to kindergarten all by herself.

The second Monday in Nov, however, ranks even above those tabloid-worthy occurrences. One moment, Keesha and her mates are more or less enjoying somewhat subpar icecream in the cafeteria. They are also half-heartedly gossiping about Robert Ryan, that truly delish lower sixer, and (because they are girls and ace this whole multitasking shit) watching Mr Butler being a total spaz as per.

He and Mr Bloom - and Keesha is not even starting on that one, he made her hand in a paper on the absurdity of the concept of divine beings just cause she said she wanted a tat of an angel - are taking the piss out of Mr Bana for getting third helpings or something. And Mr Butler is imitating Mr Bana eating by pretending to be a vac, flinging his arms about for some reason.

Then, though, and this is where things get well weird, one of the cafeteria women, the lanky one with the massive eyebrows, collapses behind the counter with a heart attack or summat. Keesha and everyone else gets up of course to see what's going on, and next thing, Mr Butler is jumping over the counter like this was Mr Urban's cross-country obstacle course, and is on his knees next to the woman.

Over the course of the next five minutes, Keesha's icecream melts, unnoticed, because she, and with her about half of the rest of the school are watching in absolute awe, how Mr Butler first checks the woman's vitals and then performs CPR, like, the whole proper heart massage deal, like he was the lead on 'Cardiac Arrest'.

Then Mr Bloom unfortunately remembers that they are not extras in a television show and orders them to leave, off-handedly telling them to see the school counsellor if they should feel the need to talk about what just happened while he listens to Mr Bana phoning an ambulance. 

Keesha has a free period next, so she and some of her mates linger on the lawn in front of the main building until the ambulance arrives. A paramedic or something jumps out and rushes inside, two more follow with a stretcher and all kinds of stuff and then for five minutes or so, nothing happens until the double winged door is swung open again. The two paramedics push the rolling stretcher out, the lanky cafeteria woman on it. She looks as pale as but is awake again and clutching to Mr Butler's hand until her stretcher is lifted into the ambulance. Mr Butler briefly chats with the paramedics, and he watches as the ambulance drives off. When it has disappeared outside the gates, he pulls and apple from his trouser-pocket, bites a huge chunk out of it and grins around before raising a hand in greeting at Keesha and her mates, like this is just another day in the life of.

Honestly, who allowed bonkers teachers to become some sort of hero without warning? Keesha thinks it should be illegal or something.

***

Eric loves Viggo, with the might of all his heart, brain, batting arm, and dick (in that order), but even he has to say that Viggo isn't always the most... considerate of people. Where the big things are concerned, yes, of course he is, and sometimes what Viggo thinks of as 'big things' (e.g. first time heartbreak of a third form Arnorian or the colour of a butterfly getting caught in Gerry's hair) doesn't even register as 'things, regular' on Eric's horizon.

But the thing is, Viggo teaches R.E. and Eric teaches maths. Which means that yes, Viggo has to grade essays written by pupils in his A-level, and rather often his kids hand in stuff voluntarily that Eric guesses would have better fit into their dream journals than their R.E. folder. But Eric teaches maths, approximately eight different classes, which means eight stacks of tests every turn. He did once calculate how many tests that were on average, how many pages, how many hours spent, how many biros - but the numbers were too depressing, so he repressed them.

The point is, Eric usually has tests to grade in the evening and Viggo... hasn't. Viggo is also bored very easily and half the time he finds mindblowingly amazing things to occupy himself with. The other half of the time he automatically turns to Eric. Scratch that. He also turns to Eric with the amazing mindblowing things.

Take this regular Tuesday evening in the middle of November for instance. Eric tortures himself from half four to six and from seven to half eleven with his sixth formers' idea of statistics.

Viggo lets himself into Eric's flat around a quarter past five and falls asleep in Eric's bed at around eleven (judging from the snores coming from the bedroom), leaving only for dinner and, from what Eric gathers from the stuff he brings with him when he returns (figs and bad mood), a quick supply run to TESCO and an involuntary run in with Orlando. 

While Eric's only movement consists of changing from his desk to his sofa (first he sits, then he lies on his stomach), Viggo sits on the sofa, at the dining table, on the dining table, for some reason under the dining table, is on the balcony, in the kitchen, the shower, the bedrom, does yoga or something like it on the carpet, falls asleep there for a while, and possibly attempts a handstand in the hallway, judging from the noises. He also has several conversations with Eric on varying subjects, that all go something like this:

'Eric, did you know that figs were domesticated earlier than wheat, barley, and legumes, and may be the first known instance of agriculture?'

'Hmhm.'

'I think we should have more figs in the common kitchens fridge. They are healthy, tasty, and their shape is aesthetically pleasing.'

'Sure.'

'Also, I think they might be an aphroditisiac. Or was that asparagus? I should look that up.'

'You do that.'

Or like this:

'Every year when the temperatures drop I think that I should stop smoking. I mean, I love being outside, who doesn't, right?'

'Hmhm.'

'But to have to go outside in the middle of the night in one's underwear just to not set off the fire alarms, that's a bit dense.'

'Hmhm.'

'On the other hand, I really quite like smoking.'

'Hmhm.'

Or like this:

'Eric, are you even listening to what I say?'

'Sure.'

'Even to the part where I just quoted Taylor Swift lyrics at you for two minutes?'

'Hmhm.'

Or like this:

'He is such a damn asshole. Why would he even say that, and in class of all places? Goddamn son of satan, that's what he is. I swear one day I will just run him over.'

'Not with the Falcon.'

'No, of course not. Do you think I am crazy? Your poor car. Bad enough that it has to sleep in the same garage as his motorbikes. Did I tell you that I had a dream about him being one of the riders of the apocalypse?'

'Hmhm.'

And like this:

'I mean Harris bowled in three Ashes series including the 5-0 whitewash in the last series, didn't he, plus he coached a Cricket Australia XI to a seriously heavy defeat over the weekend. If he sees enough quality in England to paper over the cracks, then I don't think why I shouldn't.'

'True.'

'Plus, Stokes may yet end up playing a part in the series. If he doesn't go to prison, that is. And the injuries, unwelcome as they are, have been confined mostly to the squad's fringe bowlers. So why worry?'

'Hmhm.'

'But really, you can't argue that the most important thing is that Anderson and Broad are on their feet. As long as they stay that way, England can still threaten in the series.'

'Hmhm.'

Oh, and also this one:

'Hey, you want to have sex?'

'Hmhm.'

'Right now?'

'Hmhm.'

'Cause I locked the door on my way in. And I mean you're on your stomach now anyway. I reckon if I go really slowly, I could make love to you while you continue grading.'

'Sounds great. - Jesus, Viggo, do I look like a bouncy castle to you?'

***

Viggo wakes at ten to seven to the sound of the banjo that his phone's alarm system decided on as appropriate morning music. The walls of the house already vibrate subtly with children shuffling back and forth on the floors.

He is in Eric's bed, absurdly the right way up, and Eric's side of the bed is empty. Without raising his head or in fact even rolling onto his side, Viggo checks his phone. The lockscreen shows one new message.

Eric [5:47 a.m.]: Out for a run with Karl and Boris. See you at brekkies!

Viggo buries his face in his pillow again. Figures. A marathon of grading in Eric's mind is best compensated by attempting an actual marathon the next day. He always does this, would rather play cricket but that is frowned upon in the middle of the night by the majority of JCers for some reason Viggo can't fathom.

Some people really are weird.

Outside the half open window a biology book falls down from one of the upper floors whose descend gets slowed down only momentarily by the tree's branches before it disappears from view.

It's probably a sign to get up.

***

Viggo opens the door to his flat just as Sean raises his fist to knock again. Viggo blinks at his visitor somewhat owlishly whereas Sean's expression is maybe a bit manic but way more appropriate, considering it is five in the afternoon and not the middle of the night.

'Did I wake you?' Sean, considerate as always, enquires with his customary too loud voice.

Viggo rubs his eyes and shakes his head.

'Nah, not really,' he says and yawns, 'what can I do for you?'

Sean raises a USB stick, wriggles it and grins. Viggo nods. 

'Yes, fascinating thing. Technology. Anything else?'

Sean's barking laughter makes one of the Arnorians walking past him at this moment nearly fall out the window in surprise.

'It's not the hardware I am happy about, mate, but what's on it.'

Viggo yawns again, then squints at Sean, judging his facial expression.

'I like you, but I'm not gonna watch porn with you.'

Sean's grin turns into a frown, even though the floor around him is now deserted.

'It's not porn, you bastard. It's that Bogart documentary I was talking about. I found it online and was being a good friend and wanted to watch it with you. Kinda thinking of reconsidering, though.'

Viggo immediately shakes his head.

'No, I wanna watch it!' he says and steps out and closes the door behind him. 

Sean regards his bare feet.

'We can go and watch it at Wellesley,' he says, eyes still on Viggo's feet, 'but considering I'm already here and you're not wearing any shoes...'

Viggo steps around Sean and picks up a stray sock (pink and green, definitely too small to be his) from the floor.

'No, we can watch it here,' he says, gesturing Sean to follow whilst stuffing the sock into the pocket of his jeans. 'We'll just have to -' He doesn't finish the sentence but points at the door to Eric's rooms instead, right next to his own, and pushes the door handle down. The door opens.

Sean shrugs and follows.

'Aye, all right. He does have the bigger telly.'

Viggo makes a noise of affirmation as he switches on the lights inside.

'Yeah. Also, he is asleep on my couch. And he snores like a freight train.'

***

So far in 2017, Miranda has had rotten luck in the dating department. And that surely isn't for lack of trying. Everyone else may have their fair share of rotten eggs, same as Miranda, yes. Blind dates can get somewhat awkward when after five minutes you both realize that you don't have anything in common or when after two hours of decent conversation you learn that your date might be good looking but is also a Tory. Some people may like an advanced warning, but Miranda doesn't really enjoy a date when the man, over salad, explains to her which positions in bed he prefers by comparing them to boxing tactics. Worse was only the one that was with the avid duck hunter.

But yes, Miranda knows that this happens to everyone. What doesn't happen to everyone, however, (aside from truly paranoid people possibly and with them it is only in their imagination) is that about every other date gets somewhat accidentally date-crashed by one of her colleagues.

There was this one time, for instance, when she went out with this very nice, albeit somewhat timid taylor Gregory and Dominic West was in the same restaurant. Needless to say that the bloke didn't call her back when their date got interrupted by the start of a small fire at the table next to them and Miranda (somewhat foolishly) mentioned that she knew the suspected arsonist.

Then there was the date with the extremely fit gym owner Peter and just as they were about to buy their tickets for the movie they were going to see, they happened to run into Sean and his girl-friend Ashley. Now, Miranda likes Sean (definitely prefers him to Dominic West who sometimes stares at her hair like he is thinking of setting that on fire), but that evening would possibly have gone better without that chance meeting. Because some way or another, Sean and Peter got talking and were best mates within two minutes, bonding instantly over the recent loss of their football team. Ashley, who had been dating Sean for a while by then, instantly knew how that would turn out and just bought tickets for a movie for herself and Miranda while Sean and Peter stayed at the bar.

Miranda's date with father-of-twins Seamus started very promisingly when he brought her to a truly splendid French restaurant. However, Miranda had just sat down at the table when she spotted Orlando at one of the other tables. He didn't see her because he was too busy eating what looked like cordon bleu and waving his knife in the face of his impressivly unintimidated date, undoubtedly. Miranda couldn't hear what he was saying but judging by the looks on the faces of the people sitting closer (including Seamus), which ranged from mildly offended to aghast, it was probably something about how someone should assassinate the pope and collect house points from Mirkwood for that. Now, Orlando's date looked not only quite amused by that but also seemed to enjoy his salmon. For Miranda, being on a first date in a potential war zone really dampens the mood, though.

Tonight, however, she would even prefer being on a date with Orlando (okay, maybe not really, she is not crazy) to spending the rest of the evening in the company of Martin. Their date in this quaint little pizza place has lasted for half an hour by now, and all Martin has talked about so far is his beard. Oh, and brands of beard wax. Miranda, so far, has nodded politely and spent half the time wondering how much food will get stuck in said beard because that was more amusing than the reality of this date. So when the door of the restaurant opens and Viggo and Eric walk in, she raises her hand and waves a little too exuberantly. Eric spots her first and interrupts Viggo's monologue by lightly touching his shoulder and nodding in her direction. When both of them look at her - and while Martin checks the immaculateness of his facial hair in the reflection of his wine glass - Miranda mouthes 'Save me, please' to them.

Matching grins light up Eric's and Viggo's faces, and of course Viggo raises his eyebrows in mock innocence and shakes his head just a second before they steer towards her.

***

When Eric returns from Pony Club, it is already pitch dark outside even though it is not even six yet. From outside, he can see that - unsurprisingly - the lights in Arnor House's common kitchen are switched on, and he finds not just Viggo and six Arnorians of varying ages seated at the big table, but also Miranda.

They are laughing at something when Eric enters, but he gathers that it is not again a tale of Miranda's dating woes that has been shared. He and Viggo (and Mir) did have a good laugh about those over pizza last night, but Eric is rather certain that Miranda thinks certain aspects of her life too private to be shared with children, even if she had no qualms traumatizing Eric with them (and with the idea of several of his colleagues dating).

'How was Pony Club?' Viggo asks, wiping tears from his eyes, deep crows' feet showing around them.

'Great,' replies Eric and leans against the doorframe. 'A certain someone is probably going to strap his Shetland pony to his chest with a Baby Bj철rn next.'

Teachers and children snicker alike, and one of the older looking kids says, without looking up from her phone,

'Lizzo's mum would still fancy Mr Butler something rotten.'

Viggo's and Miranda's amusement is only hightened by that information, but the majority of minors at the table pull faces.

'Ew, gross,' one tiny round boy sums up before proceding to excavate treasures from his nose.

'Well gross,' replies phone girl, still without looking up. 'But true.'

One of the other girls decides that this conversation put her off her chocolate milk, and she tries pushing past Eric in the doorway. Her nose crinkles as she does.

'You smell funny, Mr Bana,' she remarks somewhat reprehensively and looks up at him.

'He smells of fun,' corrects Viggo who knows exactly how much Eric enjoys Pony Club despite initial protestations.

'Actually,' Eric says, 'I smell of fart. One of the horses farted on me when I was walking past.'

This time, the expressions of disgust include Miranda. Only Viggo and the little round boy laugh in delight.

***

Around three on Sunday afternoon, Orlando is bored and decides to rub United's 4:1 win against Newcastle yesterday in Sean's face. He frowns when he gets close to Wellesley because pretty much all the windows in sight seem to be wide open.

The reason for that becomes imminently apparent when Orlando steps inside, and without he instantly leaves the building again and pulls out his phone.

Orlando [3:02 p.m.]: What the fuck is going on in your house, mate?

Orlando [3:02 p.m.]: Are you reenacting the battle of Ypern in there?

The reply is instantaneous.

Sean [3:03 p.m.]: As your history A-level teacher I am equally proud and disturbed by the questionable accuracy of your comparison there

'Yeah, yeah,' Orlando mutters and glances up at Sean's (equally open) windows.

Orlando [3:03 p.m.]: Yeah yeah

Orlando [3:03 p.m.]: What's going on in there? I'm standing ten yards away from the door and still have to keep myself from being sick in the bushes

As soon as he has hit 'Send', there is movement behind Sean's window. Leaning his bare arms on the window sill, Sean looks out.

'Hey, you keep away from my rhododendron!' he bellows, smile wide.

Orlando slips his phone back into the pocket of his slacks and tilts his head.

'Why does your house stink like The Perfume Shop after a bomb explosion?'

Sean laughs and shakes his head.

'Little experiment gone wrong. You gotta ask West's fourth form chemistry class for details. You wanna come up?'

Orlando pulls a face and just the fact that he knows he is in plain sight of all of Wellesley's residents keeps him from flipping Sean off.

'Course I don't,' he yells back. 'Pony?'

***

'Weeeest! It's you! You still have a phone! And ears to put to next to!'

'Yes, indeed. Other people would just say "hello", but I'm glad you compliment me on my having ears. Hello Gerry.'

'I'm sorry, it's just that you never call me.'

'I called you yesterday.'

'Never!'

'You talked at me about monster trucks for half an hour.'

'Oh, that was you?'

'Very funny. And I called you on Saturday as well.'

'Well, that doesn't count.'

'Why?'

'I didn't pick up.'

'Yes, clearly that is my fault.'

'It was. I had pony club. You know that. I can't be expected to pick up the phone when I am - '

'Braiding your little walking turnip's hair, I know.'

'...'

'Gerry?'

'I cannot believe what you just said.'

'What?' 

'If I had a gauntlet, I would now throw it in your face. Turnip. The nerve!'

'Well, he does look like a turnip.'

'Ye bile yer heid, bushy top.'

'...'

'West?'

'Yes?'

'Are you still there?'

'Obviously. But you told me to shut up, didn't you.'

'Well, actually, I - never mind. This phonecall is weird.'

'It's only you pointing that out that actually makes it weird. But anyway, I wanted to ask you something.'

'You're not invited to pony club.'

'Yes, I am aware of that. Not what I wanted to ask. I saw you in between classes this morning.'

'Aye, and? Why didn't you say hi?'

'Maybe because you were just being abducted by ants?'

'What?'

'Well, that is what it looked like. A colony of ants carrying away their booty.'

'I'm not sure I appreciate you calling my first formers ants, West. Or my pony a turnip, but we were already past that point.'

'Yes, anyway. Why exactly was that happening?'

'Oh, I was crowd-surfing.'

'Excuse me, there must be a fault in the line. I thought I heard you say "crowd-surfing".'

'Aye. I was.'

'Okay. Just checking. Was there any particular reason for that?'

'Today? No. They just enjoyed it last Monday, and so did I, to be fair, and so I let them do it again.'

'Last Monday?'

'Come on, West. My birthday. Last Monday. Obviously.'

'You do realize that having one's first formers carrying you around on their hands is not exactly how other people celebrate their birthday, right?'

'Bile yer heid!'

***

Sean sits down at his usual table in the cafeteria and stares dejectedly at his tray of food. He hates International Tuesdays. Who on earth thought marinated aubergine was a good idea?

Then he makes the mistake of looking up. Because it is Doomsday, Orlando and Viggo arrived at the same time, and at rush hour no less. That leaves them standing in line next to each other, and Sean can see from across the room that this is not a good day for them to even be in the same building with one another. Orlando's expression is harder than normal, and whatever he is saying to Viggo while horrible food is being shovelled onto his plate, it's quiet enough not to carry to the oblivious pupils left and right of them. But Viggo's face goes from long-suffering to thunderous, and Sean averts his gaze and starts stabbing his stupid aubergine when Orlando's reaction is the coldest of smiles.

He doesn't even look up when at the entrance there is a bit of noise and shoving, followed seconds later by clanging and someone protesting angrily. Let someone else deal with this shit today.

'Mr Bean?'

With some effort, Sean raises his gaze from his rather mutilated looking lunch to find Annie Kim, Second Form Wellie, standing in front of him. He attempts a smile and hopes that it at least doesn't look as murderous as Orlando's.

'Yes?'

Annie tilts her head which makes her green-rimmed glasses slide a little more to the left. Then she holds out her open pack of Jammie Dodgers.

'You want one?'

The biscuits and her earnest expression of concern in front of him, Sean rubs a hand over his face, skin feeling taut underneath his fingers. Then he laughs and nods and reaches out.

***

Wednesday evenings in Wellesley Hall, the Loo is reserved for board game nights. Usually Sean takes part and does so with an enthusiasm that sometimes causes his pupils to let him win deliberately, so he won't have a heart attack. Sometimes some of the other teachers join in - Orlando usually when he is bored, Eric when they play 'Modern Art' (less because of its aesthetical value, but because it is perfect for a study of game theory), Karl when they do anything related to random sports knowledge.

Tonight, Sean decided to bow out and take a much needed nap instead when Molly Todd informed him that a bunch of second formers had invited Gerry to play. Still rubbing his eyes and yawning, he goes to check on them around half eight. On the staircase he is wondering whether the group dissolved already, it is much more quiet than usual.

He learns the reason for that the moment he enters the Loo. Eight kids, mostly second formers, but some older, sit around the table as if transfixed. All of their attention is focussed on Gerry who now abruptly changes from a quiet singsonging lilt, two octaves higher than his normal voice into a full on bellow in the thickest brogue, informing Remi Desham that she just got eaten by a rather surly malevolent giant. Remi and the other seven, somewhat unfittingly considering her demise, shriek in delight when Gerry adds a roar for good measures.

Sean chuckles and unnoticed leaves again. Might be a while till that round of Dungeons and Dragons is over, he supposes.

***

Orlando comes back from his quick emergeny trip to Tescos (not tampons for once but batteries for his own TV remote and the one in the common room), only to find his flat empty and Dom gone. 

Now, Orlando would be perfectly happy to skip their planned afternoon activity; he has no idea how Dom talked him into watching 'Snakes on a plane' with him in the first place but is quite sure that weed was involved. On the other hand, Dom loose in Mirkwood? Orlando shuts the door again and sets the parameters for a systematic search.

His quest is somewhat slowed down by a bunch of third formers waylaying him and pestering him about the batteries he promised, then he gets distracted by a couple of texts from Richard which he reads on the staircase leading to the second floor and subsequently has to deliver an impromptu telling-off to two first formers for bumping into him.

But at least when he finds Dom, he is not giving a scarring sex talk to horrified teenagers nor is he demonstrating how to cartwheel on the hallway, making him at least a better house guest than... other people who are banned from Mirkwood by official decree.

Dom is, in fact, not talking or moving at all. That is due to the fact that Miranda Tristram and Alicia Mebane sat him down on one of the two chairs in their room and are in the middle of applying full on Rockstar make up to his face.

Why? Just. Why.

***

Now, Kiele is not saying that there is something 'in the air' in November specifically, other than potential frostbite, maybe. But it seems to be the month when some of the heads of house are more open about their slight peculiarities. So when she comes back from the village after picking up Matt, she gives merely a fleeting glance and not much longer a thought to Viggo who sits on a lawchair in front of Arnor House, wearing two winter coats and a blanket, with just two small candles, the kind you put up on graveyards in front of him on the grass.

'What is he -?' Matt starts, followinger his wife's gaze. He yawns, then, though, and comes up at the other end of that with a smile. He waves dismissively. 'Nevermind, I don't care.'

Kiele laughs and puts the radio on.

***

On Saturday evening, a quiet one, Sean finds himself not only head of Wellesley, but also stand-in for Arnor and Mirkwood House. The first came yesterday with a blow up crown that Viggo handed to him, "the interim king", before he buggered off to God-knows-where (Viggo told him, but his answer was so long and convoluted that the actual answer got lost in translation) with Eric right after school. Sean and Arnor's house mother both agree that when Viggo's humour reaches pound-shop-level, it is better to let him go. He gets temporal dictatorial power over Mirkwood - and a list of pupils on the watch-list - from its head of house two hours before Orlando left for York. Contrary to Viggo's case, Sean does not ask him where Orlando is going or what he has planned for the evening, but Orlando tells him anyway, leaving Sean with mental images that he can really do without.

Despite all that responsibility, Sean doesn't hesitate for a second when Cate calls around five and asks whether she and her husband should come over for a glass (or a bottle, or a case) of fine French wine. Sean sends a party of three fifth formers to Tesco to buy cheese to go with the wine, but he maybe should've been a bit more specific because Cate's and Andrew's reaction is hysterical laughter. Considering Joelle, Rashida, and Tom bought Dairylea Dunkers this is quite well warranted.

Sean and Cate eat it anyway, Andrew declares them barbarians, and Sean and Andrew spend most of the evening talking about Andrew's newest hobby of restoring antique pocket watches. Meanwhile, Cate scares the shit out of some Mirkwooders by doing a rather splendid job of immitating Orlando's bellow when she spots them trying to sneak out of the house past curfew.

***

Richard’s fingers dig into his upper arm, the inside of his thigh. It’s pitch-dark, his remaining senses heightened because of it, and his heart races, tries and fails to pump his blood fast enough through his veins. Feels like it can’t keep up because Richard pushes into him, thrusts, thrusts, too fast, just right, too fucking good for him to keep track of cause and effect - 

\- sure, the neuronal correlates of consciousness can be viewed as causes, and consciousness may be thought of as a state-dependent property of some undefined complex, adaptive - 

He tries to keep up, he really fucking tries, but Richard adapts again and again, so fucking precise, and his mind is swimming, he should be furious maybe, or ecstatic, but they’re one and the same and he just wants more, is so fucking aroused - 

\- you either define it as involving arousal and states of consciousness or as involving content of consciousness and conscious states. But you can’t argue that to be conscious of anything the brain must be in a high state of vigilance -

Vigilant, yes, forceful, fuck yes, and he would give in if that didn’t take the fun out of it. But this is so past fun, his mind shatters and shatters again and he tries to hold on to the pieces until even that fails to be important, becomes impossible, and he -

Orlando wakes up. 

Richard shifts on the mattress next to him, and Orlando’s mind reassembles itself abruptly. Like someone hits reverse on a video tape, all the pieces of the broken mirror fall back into place, cracks erased, and he sees himself in it again.

Richard is breathing slow and even. Orlando isn’t. He lies on his back, listens, until his lungs stop insisting on open-mouthed pants. Then he opens his eyes. Greyish morning light filters through the cracks of the heavy curtains, but no sounds come from the street below yet. Richard is asleep next to him, on his side, facing the wall. Orlando pulls a face when he adjusts himself in his boxers - half-hard like a teenager, for fuck’s sake, get a grip -, glances at his watch. 7:13 a.m.

Just going back to sleep sounds tempting, but he knows that he won’t get a continuation of his dream. It’s more likely that he’ll dream of house duties, lesson plans, detention. A cup of coffee is preferable.

When he gets up, Richard stirs and hums inquisitively. Orlando grunts softly in response, stands next to the bed with his slacks in his hand, leaves the room when the line of Richard’s shoulder relaxes again.

In Jackson College, he has the choice between his own and the common kitchen; in comparison to both, Richard’s is definitely tidier and quieter. Orlando directs his first frown of the day at the needlessly complicated coffee machine and puts the kettle on instead. Richard keeps his mugs and a small assortment of teas and coffee in the cabinet right above it. There is no instant coffee, though, so Earl Grey will have to do. As he waits for the water to boil, his eyes flick back and forth between the cookbooks, Richard’s work-schedule on the fridge, the stack of Observers on the counter, his mind idling again.

With the steaming mug, he sits down at the table on the chair he usually takes. The bottles of the beer they drank last night are still there - Richard’s in a neat row, his own with their labels partially pealed off - and in the otherwise spotless and so neatly organized kitchen they stand out like sore thumbs. 

They had plans to go to the Swan for dinner last night, but Richard ordered take-out curry online around half eight instead, without even interrupting his recollection of his conference in Dublin. About an hour later, Orlando unceremoniously binned the remainders of it. By then they were the middle of a conversation about the relevance of brain development studies and the influence of neurological findings on 21st century philosophy. 

They never made it to the Swan. They didn’t even make it to the living room; instead they stood in the middle of the kitchen, with their beers in their hands, and only managed to sit down at the table again about a quarter of an hour later.

Having just recently re-read Patricia Churchland’s essays on neuroscience and morality, there is little that Orlando finds as exciting as the radicalism of eliminative materialism. It makes Nietzsche seem like a proper wuss in comparison. But as much as he appreciates the vastness of the consequences advancements in neuroscience hold for philosophy, the actual science behind it always eluded him. 

So, when Richard smiled and apologized for ‘going on a bit’ about his work, Orlando pushed his curry away and rather firmly urged him to continue. Richard, being Richard, hesitated for another moment, but laughed when Orlando told him his modesty and self-deprecation was polite but incredibly annoying. 

‘C’mon, I’m fucking interested, don’t be a fucking tease,’ were his exact words. ‘Go on, please.’

And did Richard ever. Orlando isn’t in the habit of bringing pen and paper to a date, so instead his right hand stripped his beer bottles of their labels for want of the opportunity to taking notes.

In the kitchen, in the morning, Orlando puts his by now half-empty mug down, eyes refocusing again. The flat is still silent, Richard apparently still asleep; long week, night shifts, if Orlando remembers correctly. The clock on the oven shows it’s 7:52, and there is a small notepad stuck to the fridge, no groceries listed on it at the moment. 

He refills his mug and takes down the notepad, along with the ballpoint pen next to it. In small print, automatically adjusted to the size of the pad, he starts jotting down annotations to what Richard said yesterday, like he would with a properly good book. Main ideas, questions, cross-references. His hand struggles to keep up as his mind reconstructs last night’s conversation.

The way Richard talked about developmental neurology spoke of many lectures successfully held. The occasional shrug, a casting down of eyes, repeated offers to change the subject after all - all of that could be seen as part of his ingrained politeness (‘I really don’t want to bore you’), as a sign that he might be embarrassed to showcase the level of his own expertise. Orlando knows better. 

When Richard talked about neuroplasticity, connectome genesis and the possibilities functional magnetic resonance imaging in the preterm neonate offers, he made it sound simple, even though he bloody well knows it is anything but, and Orlando had to strain himself to keep up. And later, he calmly waited while Orlando made the case for eliminative materialism, only to then ask two questions, almost casual, like an idly flicked finger against the base of a house of cards.

Richard is fucking smart and he knows it; all attempts to downplay that just highlighted it even more. It is casually arrogant, it’s infuriating and exhausting, and it’s so fucking hot. Orlando reacted to it with an intensity that should not come as a surprise to him - he bloody knows what pushes his buttons - yet he was on the edge of painful arousal for hours before he even realized it.

When he did, he acted on it. A chuckle rolled from Richard’s throat, debate grinding to a halt, and he suggested that Orlando’s proposal was a bit of a non sequitur. Of course he was wrong, in fact Orlando can’t think of a stronger causal link than that between fierce intelligence and irresistible attractiveness. He had other things on his mind than explaining though - ‘You want to fuck or not?’

Richard’s amusement turned surprise, turned arousal in the matter of a minute, laughing into the kiss Orlando pulled him into, then gasping, then growling before they even reached the bedroom. The sex that followed was the logical continuation of that - fast and hard and forceful. And fuck, is Richard good at that as well. The kind of urgent physicality that is so very pleasurable because you know you’ll get instant gratification from it.

Afterwards, Richard was breathless and back to laughing again, lax enough to reuse a joking complaint (‘You broke me. Again.’) whilst wiping sweat from his face. Orlando slumped down next to him, panting and hurting in all the right places, hoping that the endorphins still coursing through his body were a match for all the fragments of thoughts and concepts in his mind. Hoping that at least temporarily they would blunt their sharp edges and give him at least a respite before he wouldn’t be able to resist touching and rearranging them again.

Turned out, hope wasn’t really enough (when is it ever). Leaning over and kissing Richard again - not slow and languid, not by a longshot, but without much of the desperation now - produced better results.

Sounds of movement from the bathroom jerk him out of his contemplations. The clock shows 8:21 now, Richard is awake, and for some reason Orlando spent the last couple of minutes stirring his tea with the blunt end of the ballpoint pen. He is just done wiping it off on a kitchen towel when Richard comes into the room. Wearing jeans and a t-shirt, he is at least one item ahead of Orlando, a situation that Orlando thinks of modifying when Richard halts and stretching his arms over his head exposes his flat stomach.

‘Morning,’ Orlando says, bites back a smile when it seems to take Richard half a second to focus on him.

‘Good morning,’ he then says, his voice gravelly. ‘Hope you slept well.’ 

Orlando hums an affirmation, and Richard gestures at the coffee machine, one brow arched. Orlando shrugs.

‘Working that thing takes a degree in rocket science.’

Chuckling, Richard proceeds to go through the twenty step process of preparing coffee where really a spoonful of Sainsbury Roast and a bit of hot water would’ve sufficed. But sure, the Knight Industries 2000 or whatever is just so convenient and user-friendly.

Orlando doesn’t mock him outright and receives a cup of admittedly delicious smelling coffee for his troubles two minutes later. Richard sits down opposite of him, one bare foot saved from the relative coolness of the tiles by resting on his knee. For a bit, they just sit there and drink, waiting for caffeine to work its magic. Eventually, Richard ever so briefly frowns at the assortment of beer bottles on the table, then spots the handful of small sheets Orlando tore off the notepad. As his eyes meet Orlando’s, Orlando sees the question in them.

‘I have follow up questions for last night,’ he explains.

Richard licks coffee from his lips, but that doesn’t erase the smile from them.

‘Me too, I suppose.’ 

There is hidden amusement in his voice, like they aren’t really talking about the same thing. It’s faint, though, and mild, so Orlando isn’t necessarily required to address it.

‘You wanna go out for breakfast?' he asks instead. ‘I reckon I owe you a meal that doesn’t come out of a take-out box.’ 

Again, amusement tugs at Richard’s lips, and Orlando takes that as confirmation. Food and a decent conversation, maybe another round of sex. Pretty nice plans for a Sunday morning. Orlando gets up, nudges Richard’s knee with his own, smiles.

‘The Pig and Pastry, avocado toast, right?’

***

It's been raining all afternoon, pretty heavily even, so most boarders decided that they should spend the rest of the day inside. After all, not everyone can be as batshit insane as Mr Bana and Mr Mortensen who decided to play cricket in the pissing rain. Mind, it depends on the house whether entering public spaces is actually advisable. 

In Palm House a couple of fourth formers have maybe been for a bit too long in their head of house's husband's presence because they have taken up policing the hallways looking for crime. They tied one rather mystified fifth former to a handrail with fluffy handcuffs even.

In Erebor Manor, there is something wrong with the pipes again and if you aren't careful, Marsters, the janitor, will have you holding a bucket for an endless amount of time (like for half an hour) while he is trying to fix the problem.

In Wellesley Hall Mr Bean maybe wasn't strict enough about the 'no ballgames inside' schoolwide rule. The second floor of the West wing is rather unsafe and you're better off avoiding it if you don't want to get hit in the head with a football.

In Mirkwood House, things are much quieter, of course. Mr Bloom joined a couple of pupils in the basement's library, though not one of them is actually reading. Well, save for Patricia Maxwell, and only if you consider leafing through 'Knitting' reading. Which even she doesn't, to be honest. She is just cross with Mr Bloom for telling her that her knitting skills definitely aren't sufficient for even thinking about attempting to knit socks. Privately, Patricia thinks that anything Mr Bloom can do, she can do better, and those pitch black socks he's half way through with don't look difficult at all.

***

The lower sixers return from their field trip to Scarborough two hours late and with their numbers having diminished. This is not - as Thomas Yardman tells Sean - due to the fact that they fed their chaperones to the dinosaurs. It is correct that the teachers are the ones who are missing, but when the pupils of the biology AS-level collectively decided that they would now catch the bus back to Jackson College, no matter what, their two teachers were still very much alive.

However, and Thomas Yardman doesn't correct Sean there, their absence is very much tied to the Jurassic age. Personally, Thomas and most of the others agree that it is admirable that old people such as Mr Butler and Mr Monaghan out to be congratulated to still be able to be enthusiastic about shit. But seriously, it's just weird when it's the pupils who have to remind their teachers to not touch the exhibited bones and when said teachers respond by growling at their charges the way they insist that dinosaurs did it back in the olden days.

In any case, Mr T-Rex and Mr Velociraptor (nicknames that did not come from the pupils, it must be said) are still in the Rotunda Museum, and the AS-level expects them back some time next week.

***

[29/11/2017, 7:02 p.m.]  
聽  
'Hi. This is Richard Armitage. I can't answer the phone right now, but if you want you can leave a message and I'll call you back. Cheers.'

Hiya, it's Orlando. Hm, thought I would maybe catch you in person, I thought working nights was last week? Anyway, nevermind, I'm calling because - sorry, just a sec, someone is trying to kick in my door... [sound of a door being opened] Sean, what the fuck? I thought someone was murdering a rhino out there!... Yeah, chill out, man, it's just two minutes and it's rather unlikely that Robert gets beaten up again today, is it? - Sorry, Richard. Serves me right for opening the door for that lunatic. Anyway, I'm calling because I just got word from the theatre in London, the one doing Beckett's "Krapp's last tape", yeah? And they said - Sean, shut up!... First of, Charity can fall down a fucking well for all I care, and second of, you really don't need to be narrating everything that is happening. It's a soap, I do possess the mental capability of catching up all on my own. [sound of a door being opened and shut again] I'm sorry, Richard. I'm outside now. So, the people from the Beckett theatre called and told me they had tickets for next Saturday and whether I wanted them. But I wasn't sure whether you were on duty next weekend, so I asked them - [footsteps approaching] Fuck, hold on. - Hey, Noah?... Is there a reason why there's blood dripping from your skull? Come here, let me see that. ... Well, teaches you to not pick a fight with Nolan, doesn't it? ... You better go and see the school nurse. And if you happen to run into Nolan, tell him I'd like to have a word. [footsteps receding] Fuck, I swear, this place sometimes. Again, sorry for this, Richard. Let me make this brief before I get interrupted again: I can get tickets for next Saturday, and I'm sure I can find a hotel as well, I just wanted to check with you whether you were free. If you're not, I'll reschedule, otherwise, Saturday evening, London, Beckett? It'll be fun. Well, it'll be Beckett, anyway. Gotta go now, gotta watch Emmerdale and then tar and feather a third former. Fabulous life of, right? Anyway, let me know about London as soon as, all right?'

***

For decades now Eric has been made fun of because his family owns a huge hotel with an excellent reputation for its kitchen, and he can't cook. Personally he doesn't think that one really has anything to do with the other. It would be like saying that the life guards at Bondi beach had to be good at building sandcastles, just because they worked at the beach. 

The fact that he pretty much ruins every meal - and that includes toast - by either burning it, making it soggy, overdoing it with the spices or completely forgetting half of the ingredients makes people look at him in bemusement when he says that he can bake. Again, cooking and baking are not actually that similar. You go ahead and tell Sean that it makes little difference which football team from Sheffield he supports - they are both from Sheffield after all - or compliment Orlando on the fancy new scarf he crocheted, and you'll see what they say about that.

He isn't an expert when it comes to baking either, but the neat thing about that is that you can make pretty much anything better in that department with a thick sugar coating and colourful sprinkles. The recipe for the cookies he is famous for school wide, for instance, that couldn't be simpler. For one egg, you take 4.5 oz of Butter, 3.5 oz of sugar and a good half pound of flour, and there you go.

And he has told both Viggo and the Arnorians who insist on baking like crazy as soon as December rolls around. Repeatedly so. He still gets dragged into the kitchen with them, and while he pawned off the general keeping-the-kitchen-half-way-clean and no-egg-throwing supervision to the stern looking girl with the bun, he really tries to make sure the kids don't eat too much of the sprinkles before they even get near any cookies. Half a house on a sugar rush? He's learned his lesson last year.


	6. December 2017 + January 2018 + February 2018

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here is what happened at Jackson College in December 2017, January 2018 and February 2018.

'You know people think you're weird,' Eric says to Viggo, looking up at him.

Viggo lifts his shoulders without taking his hands out of the pockets of his jeans. His smile grows broader. 

'You dig that.'

Eric chuckles and nods.

'Oh yes, I do,' he says, looking down at the parcel in his lap. He has a bit of tape stuck to his hand from opening it that he disposes of by sticking it to Viggo's knee.

'You are weird,' he says, and it absolutely sounds like three other words alltogether.

'Well,' Viggo says matter of factly. 'I had to think of 24 gifts for you, didn't I. Doing stuff like this makes it a lot easier.'

Eric hums and takes his first of 24 gifts out of the box, looking at it from different angles.

'So there is a good chance,' he says whilst toeing off his left sneaker, 'that over the course of the next three weeks I will also get a second shoe to match this one?'

'Course,' Viggo says, nudging Eric's sock-clad foot with his naked toe. 'Anything else would be really weird.'

***

(written by noalinnea)

On December 1 Eric wakes up to an empty bed. Well, it's not exactly empty, there are the duvets and pillows, but the most vital part is missing: Viggo. Instead there is a polaroid on Viggo's pillow, propped up against the headboard. A polaroid of Viggo holding a huge box and wearing... glittery wings and a grin that almost is too huge for the format. On the backside Viggo has scribbled in silver ink: 'Meet me in the kitchen. Or bathroom. Depends.' Eric smiles to himself and let's his head sink back into the pillow. He'll check the kitchen first. Five more minutes, though.

On December 1 Boris receives a little extra treat with his breakfast, a biscuit in form of a Christmas tree. Still in his boxer shorts only, his fingers curled around a mug of steaming coffee, Karl peers over Beth's shoulder at the packet she's retrieved the biscuit from. 'Seasonal Doggie Treats?' he asks. 'Should I be jealous?' Beth shakes another biscuit from the box and throws it in Boris' direction who catches it effortlessly in midair. Show off, Karl thinks, but can't help feeling a little proud. 'Good boy!' Beth coos before she turns around to grin at Karl: 'Well, if you are I can always buy a second carton.'

On December 1 Sean sleeps through his alarm and spends thirty extra minutes cocooned in the warmth of his bed, oblivious of the noise surrounding him, the footsteps in the corridors, the morning buzz. Until a sound wakes him rather ungently, someone seems to be trying to kick in the door. 'Sean? You alright, mate?' he can hear Orlando hollering, and when he opens the door, bleary eyed, in his pajamas, Orlando cocks his head to the side and musters him, his expression so full of judgment that Sean wonders if he'll get told off for oversleeping. But then Orlando tells him it's good to know he didn't die in his sleep, shoves a cup of tea into his hands and a small gift wrapped parcel that has grinning reindeer on it. When Sean just stares at it distrustfully and casts Orlando a questioning look, he shrugs:  'Just came in the mail. Some Christmas junk, I suppose, from the look of it. See you at lunch.' He nods at Sean and heads back down the corridor, giving a sock-clad first former a stern look, to judge from the frightened expression on the kid's face.  Sean closes the door and turns the parcel around. With a smile he thinks that thankfully, Ashley has a better grasp on the whole Christmas concept than Orlando, or he'd never get an Advent Calendar.

On December 1 Cate finds a single red rose on her night stand when she wakes up. When she turns to Andrew with a questioning look, he smiles at her, leans in for a kiss and then says: '22 more to come. On Christmas it's Dairylea Dunkers.'

On December 1 Miranda opens her door and almost steps onto a small parcel. Her name is scribbled onto it and when she tears the wrapping paper off, she finds a small photo album in it. The front says: 'A Duck a Day', and that's what it is- 24 pictures of Buttercup and her siblings. And one of a chubby Shetland pony.

On December 1 Orlando receives a text from Richard that's not about Beckett or London or sex, but says:  
'To give you a respite of the seasonal merrymaking, here's a proposition- one quote a day, and you can talk about it as much as you wish- in person, via text, email, postcard, yelling at my answering machine... you choose. Deal? For today I chose Hegel: “Education is the art of making man ethical”. Go.'

***

On Saturday morning, the first in December, several people have guests for breakfast. Most of them are even invited.

Bernard isn't. Viggo doesn't mind that, though, because when Bernie shows up on his doorstep at 7:03 ('I am an old man, Viggo, and old men get up with the sun for fear of missing out') he comes bearing cake.

Cate invited Miranda for breakfast in her favourite faux-French restaurant in York weeks ago. Miranda arrives ten minutes late and Cate is pretty sure she has gum stuck to her hair. Miranda sits down, orders half a litre of coffee and in one sentence compliments Cate on her new lipstick, informs her that she hasn't slept a wink due to five first formers spending the night vomitting, and gushes how much she actually loves her job as head of house.

Gerry insists that West invited him for breakfast. Normally, West would not believe anything Gerry says, especially when Gerry is trying to use his Bambi expression on him whilst looming on his doorstep, but this time it seems to be different, because West's neighbour Idris stands right next to him and nods that yes, indeed, West did tell them to come over for waffles. West is a bit baffled because he doesn't even own a waffle iron (it was confiscated), he tells them to come in anyway.

Orlando gets invited for breakfast by a stranger on a train. She looks like a nice enough woman, but Orlando is not in the habit of reenacting Raymond Chandler novels (and really, finding someone to murder for you in Orlando's opinion really is the only reason why he would even consider chatting to someone on the train), and he politely declines her offer for coffee by pretending he is so engrossed in his reading material that he didn't hear her.

Boris decides to invite a guest of his own over for breakfast as well. He even opened the veranda door for him. Well, technically, Boris opened the veranda door for himself to get out into the garden. And technically, he didn't so much 'invite the squirrel' but 'killed it and had it' for breakfast. But really, potato, potato.

***

Eric really is looking for Viggo, or has been when he started out at least. That has been about half an hour ago, give or take a few minutes. And to be honest, he has kind of forgotten why he was searching for him in the first place. He rakes his mind for a clue after he has finally pried himself away from the handful of Arnorians who waylayed him in The Red Room to get insider tips on the next class test, due tomorrow morning. But he really can't remember. Can't have been cricket, he'll never forget something as important as cricket. Might have something to do with his sister having called this morning. Ah, it will come to him.

He reaches Arnor's first floor and year-long experience has him opening the doors to rooms first that are most likely to be potential warzones. Viggo does think himself a regular Gandhi from time to time, save for the bit about the hunger strike. His way of comforting teenagers on rainy Sunday afternoons usually includes biscuits. Mostly for himself, but sometimes he shares them with the distraught mini-human.

Nothing especially news-worthy awaits him in the first two rooms he checks. A spotty redheaded fifth former is making out with a lanky blonde who, Eric suspects, is not even from Arnor. Eric doesn't really care one way or the other, but his loud knock on the door followed by immediate entrance has the surprised boy falling not only off his girl-friend but also off the bed, so that is one make-out session successfully interrupted. 

The second room is even more boring; the only person inside is a broad-shouldered boy who, if Eric recalls that correctly, has been called 'clump-footed idiot' and 'new Pele' in one and the same football match last week. And he is not up to anything, mostly because he seems to have fallen asleep over his homework. Eric leaves him to peacefully drool onto a map of Jordan and closes the door again.

Room three is a bit different, mostly on account of Eric, when opening the door, getting a pillow thrown into his face. Once his vision clears again, he glares into the room at large.

'Oi,' he says.

Three first formers stand there, comically frozen in mid-movement. One is on his bed, one has a blanket thrown over his shoulders, cape style, and one was just about to crawl out from under the bed on the left side of the room like a particularly brave soldier during a trench-war.

'Soz, Mr Bana,' murmurs blanket-kid.

'OMG,' says bed-kid, dramatically. He even slaps a hand over his mouth.

Soldier-kid unfreezes first and crawls to Eric's feet, retrieves the pillow, hastily retreats into his bed-trench.

'We were just,' starts blanket-kid and then finishes his explanation with an eloquent, 'uhm, ah.'

'OMG,' says bed-kid again.

Eric watches how blanket-kid tries to disentangle himself from his blanket-shell and nearly falls over in the process.

'I don't really care,' he says to the room at large, rubbing his forehead where a button of the pillow connected with surprising force. 'Have any of you seen Mr Mortensen?'

Again, the room freezes, which in case of bed-kid doesn't change all that much, but blanket-kid has due to that now completely disappeared under the blanket, and soldier-kid's bum is sticking out from under the bed. Wriggling under there shouldn't be as difficult as he makes it out to look, considering the relative height of the beds.

None of the three answers, though. There is some movement now, knees on carpet, most likely, from under the bed on the right side of the room.

Eric arches his eyebrows at the only kid with whom it is possible to make eyecontact at the moment; bed-kid.

'Mr Mortensen is under your bed, isn't he?' he asks.

A very telling cackle comes from under the bed.

'OMG,' says bed-kid.

***

When Viggo returns from the loo into the staff room, everything is just like he left it; Lucifer is sitting at the table with his legs crossed, reading a paper on neuroscience, at the other end of the room Gerry is still trying to convice West that this is the final proof that Orlando is a zombie overlord, and Sean is looking back and forth between them, perpetually amused.

However, one thing isn't as it was before.

'Sean,' Viggo says once he reached the table, 'where is my muffin?'

Sean turns his head to look up at him.

'Mate?' he asks. 

And really, if this is how he teaches his Wellies to lie, Viggo knows none of them will ever make spy. Viggo crosses his arms.

'The muffin that was just there on my bible, the muffin that I got from Bianca Ford because it was her birthday and she baked. It's gone.'

'Oh no,' Sean says, his eyebrows jojoing up and down. 'How did that happen?'

'I know you ate it,' Viggo replies. 

Sean has the audacity to look hurt. He also points at Orlando.

'Fuck you,' Orlando says, not even looking up from his paper.

Sean's finger remains pointed in his direction, and he wriggles it around in the air.

'Look, Vig, there's even traces of powdered sugar all over his nice black shirt.'

'Aren't you a regular CSI,' Viggo says.

Orlando flicks over to the next page.

'Sean ate it the moment you left the room.'

'Tattletale,' Sean scolds, sounding neither angry nor repentant.

Orlando lowers his paper in order to give Viggo a somewhat pitying glance before fixing a half-hearted glare on Sean.

'You sprinkled fucking sugar over me, you muppet.'

Sean grins and tugs at his ear.

'Did you just call me "muffin"?'

'Anyway,' Viggo interrupts and lightly kicks the leg of Sean's chair. 'That was supposed to be my breakfast.'

'Now, that's healthy,' Orlando remarks dryly, his eyes again on his brain paper.

Viggo uncrosses his arms just in time to catch the shiny red fruit that Sean tosses at him with a chuckle.

'Hey, West,' Gerry says at the other end of the room, 'have you seen my apple?'

***

When Eric wakes up on Monday - his only short day of the week -, he is alone in his bedroom, just like he fell asleep. However, Vig must've been there in between because he finds his gift-of-the day on the second pillow. As shoddily wrapped (Eric knows Viggo is pawning that off on first formers with deficits in the hand-eye-coordination department) as the first four, this one contains a CD, "Driving music" written onto it with Sharpie in Viggo's generous scrawl.

Eric suffers through his usual Monday morning of children with severe dyscalculia, has lunch with Gerry and Miranda in the cafeteria, and as the bell rings to announce the start of afternoon classes, he turns the key in the Falcon's ignition.

The roads are wet, the sky is grey, and Frank Miller's 'The Road' starts as he starts the CD. His fingers drum in time with the simple rhythm as he pulls out of the garage, slowly follows the curvey road to JC's gates, avoids the potholes on the way to the village. Driving like that, the first song ends when he has just reached its outskirts. Instead of the starting chord of the next, there is a short crackling sound on the CD, then Viggo's voice, a bit too close to the microphone.

'Hey, you. This is the only song on this. Cause as nice as Frank Turner is, there's nothing like the sound of a healthy V8 engine, right? So enjoy!'

Eric laughs out loud, lets the Falcons engine roar (causing an old lady to nearly fall into a ditch) and returns to JC half a petrol tank worth later and way after curfew.

***

Gerry is in the middle of explaining the defense mechanisms of squids (well, he is really in the middle of explaining why, in a better world, everyone would have squids as pets because they are belter) when the fire alarm goes off. He is a bit startled by it, but his second formers inform him that it is a regularly scheduled drill which he then happens to remember.

'Right, waddle out in a nice and orderly fashion,' he instructs, making motions resembling that of a traffic cop, and adds with his voice slightly raised, 'And Jeremy, please come out of that cupboard. I'd rather not lose you to the fire.'

Jeremy scrambles out of the cupboard he snuck into right before Gerry came into the room, much to the amusement of his mates, and together, they all leave the building. Everyone else does the same, safe for Craig's class who arrives a minute later than the rest. Something about some German tradition involving boots and leaving them outside the door which meant they had to put them on again before rescuing themselves.

The alarm finally stops and Ian and Christopher have walked around the groups of kids waiting outside on the yard. When both of them climb the stairs to the main entrance, obiously about to announce that it is safe to go back inside, the chattering of the kids dies down to a minimum.

Into the relative silence, someone (and Gerry supposes, yeah, must be from his group) chirps,

'Did Mr West set the school on fire, Sirs?'

***

Sean opens the door of his flat to find Janisa Mali and Norman Pompkin with blood smeared all over their faces. At least that is what his brain jumps to, and he is already heavily frowning when his common sense kicks in. Probably not blood, that generally doesn't go all that well with the smiles on their faces. Wellesley breeds all kinds of kids, but sociopathic murderers is hopefully not one of them.

So, instead of yelling for help or grabbing the footie trophy on shoe cabinet, Sean crosses his arms in front of his chest and matches their grin.

'What've you two been up to, then?'

Simultaneously, both raise their right hand, a red candy apple each clutched in them. Norman raises his to his mouth and with a crunch he bites a huge chunk out of it. Janisa holds out the perfect round sin on a stick to Sean.

'You said, we could make them in the kitchen if we made one for you as well, Mr Bean, remember?'

Sean takes the offering, and there is no denying that his mouth waters already.

'Cheers,' he says with a nod. 'Do I want to know what the kitchen looks like right now?'

Janisa and Norman share a look over Norman's apple that really already contains the answer to Sean's question.

'Well, I trust, you rectify that while I sample this, hm?' he says, raising his apple and waving with it as he closes his door again

***

'Hey, Eric,' Viggo says and sits himself down on the toilet lid. 'Do you remember the last time we had sex?'

From behind the shower curtain comes a hum, loud enough to be audible over the water.

Viggo waits for a moment.

'No,' he then says, 'that wasn't a rhetorical question or a conversation starter. I actually want to know.'

The water is turned off and the shower curtain pulled back enough for Eric's head, hair soaking wet, to appear.

'You mean cause I wasn't awake for most of it?'

Viggo tilts his head.

'You weren't?'

With a laugh, Eric's head disappears again and the sound of shampoo being squeezed from the bottle follows.

'No,' Viggo says again, 'I'm not - I wasn't saying that I can't tell the difference between you sleeping and you being awake. Unless I suppose I wasn't fully awake myself...' He drifts off for a moment or two. 'You think we ever had sex while we were both asleep?'

Eric's head appears again and he is now wearing a foam crown on it.

'Possibly. And to answer your initial question, yes, I do remember the last time.'

Viggo tilts his head again, this time to the other side.

'I don't.'

Again, his reply is met with laughter and the sound of the shower being turned on again. That doesn't really deter Viggo, though.

'Is that because it was so long ago or because it wasn't memorable?' Eric asks, voice raised, while scrubbing his head. 

Viggo thinks about that for a bit, then shrugs and leans back against the wall. His back hits the flush button by accident.

'I don't know that either,' he replies when the water flowing sound is reduced from stereo to mono again.

Eric turns the shower off and shakes himself like he was a wet dog.

'There is a third option,' he says, his silhouette bending over. 'I think the drain is clogged.'

Viggo hums, contemplates that, then hums again.

'What do you mean?'

Pulling the curtain back, Eric shimmies a bit, his feet making splashing sounds like he is standing in the puddle.

'The drain is clogged,' he repeats. 'I need to get some sort of drain cleaner stuff for it.'

He reaches for his towel and drapes it over his head, rubbing furiously. From underneath it, he adds,

'The third option is that you're getting old and forgetful.'

Viggo lets out a long and heaving sigh that is worthy of a Friday afternoon after a long week of work.

'There is that option, yeah.'

Eric's hair is sticking up to all sides when he moves the towel further down and starts with his chest.

'You remember the last cricket match we watched?'

'Australia v England,' Viggo says instantly. 'Australia won by 120 runs, Marsh got 100 on day two, Anderson took his first ever five-wicket haul in Australia in tests. Don't insult me.'

Eric laughs and procedes to dry his thighs.

'There is nothing wrong with your memory,' he concludes. 'Also, and much more importantly? We are just one win away from regaining the Ashes. Woho!'

***

Karl should stop getting drunk with Eric and Orlando. When he wakes up on Saturday morning, his memories from last night are incredibly blurry. However, he seems to have lost his red boxer shorts, Boris is snoring on the carpet with a pair of felt antlers on his head, and he finds an email on his phone, confirming his purchase of a pool billard table. It is bigger than his bed and really, Karl doesn't even know how to play pool.

He figures he can give it to Beth for Christmas maybe and hits the shower, Boris the sleepy reindeer on his heels.

***

Around four in the afternoon, Eric decides that he could use a snack before tea and finds his fridge spectacularly empty. Between the choices that present themselves - walking through the rain to the main building, attempting to eat something from the biohazard zone that Viggo calls his fridge, and raiding Arnor's common kitchen - he rather unsurprisingly decides on the latter.

The noise level in the house is in its usual mid-level spectrum (never as loud as Wellesley, never as quiet as Mirkwood), but as he walks down the hallway, there is something like quiet distress coming from the staircase. His hunger not being life-threatening yet, he makes a detour and finds two girls and Viggo sitting / crouching on the staircase. One of the girls - long blond hair and wide-eyes making her look like a frightened Christmas angel - looks at him whilst the other girl (crying and sitting somewhat awkwardly with her head against the banister) and Viggo pay him little attention.

'Everything all right?' Eric asks.

Viggo doesn't seem to hear him, too busy doing... something to the crying girl's head which doesn't exactly look like patting it comfortingly. Christmas angel girl, however, tells her eyes to regain a more regular size and nods at him.

'Yeah, thanks Mr Bana, Mr M got it.'

Eric nods, then shrugs, and when staircase-girl hisses with discomfort and angel-girl turns her attention towards her mate again, Eric walks on to the kitchen.

He has just fixed himself what he personally thinks qualifies as a brilliant specimen of a sandwich, when Viggo ambles in.

'Hey you,' says Eric to him.

'Hey,' says Viggo, mostly to the sandwich.

Eric cuts it in half and holds out one triangle to Viggo.

'What was that about on the staircase?' Eric asks.

'Mwgerwrm,' Viggo answers, half of his half of the sandwich in his mouth.

'Oh, that's all right then,' Eric says with a grin.

Viggo pushes the chunk of bread he bit off into his left cheek and repeats his answer, somewhat more comprehensibly.

'Sasha got stuck, and I had to help her out.'

Eric hums. He didn't hear the sound of metal saws being used, so this doesn't qualify as an actual emergency; not like the '09 incident when a boy's head got stuck in the banister.

'This is delicious,' Viggo says, waving his sandwich. ' Did you use mustard?'

Eric beams happily.

'That, and honey. Good, right?'

Viggo nods enthusiastically.

'How did Sasha manage to get stuck?' Eric asks after several moments of watching Viggo eat. 

Viggo shrugs and leans against the fridge.

'Got her earring entangled with the banister.'

Eric raises his eyebrows.

'That must've been some earring.'

Viggo, mouth again full, nods and holds his fist to his ear.

'Christmas bauble,' he says after swallowing. 'She made it herself, hence the distress of potentially losing it.'

'Ah,' Eric nods, 'right, I knew about that. Orlando told me.'

Viggo's face, previously contorted in mustard-and-honey-related delight, darkens somewhat.

'Orlando?'

'Yeah,' Eric confirms. 'They had some sort of creative afternoon in Mirkwood yesterday, I reckon?' 

He tries to remember more details about this, but truth be told, it was about two hours after midnight, Karl had already fallen asleep, curled around Boris on the carpet, and both Eric and Orlando were pretty drunk. Orlando started talking about allowing his Mirkwooders - 'and anyone who wants to join, I don't give a fuck' - to go to town with their creative ideas. Eric did listen, but most of his attention was on trying to suss out where to get a Sharpie to draw a penis on Karl's forehead.

Back in Arnor's kitchen, Viggo decided to overcome the shock of this information by helping himself to Eric's half of the sandwich.

'Orlando?' he repeats again. 'Bloom? About yay high, soulless eyes and hating Christmas?'

Eric shoos Viggo away from the fridge to start the food-making process all over again.

'Yeah, that one. He said his kids could just as well "cash in on the massive capitalism that is Christmas', as he put it, as long as they donate half of the proceeds to, and I quote "any organisation, really, as long as it has nothing to do with fucking religion".'

Viggo huffs but actually looks sort of relieved by this confirmation of his view of the world in general and Orlando in particular.

'This really is a fantastic sandwich,' he repeats, licking his fingers.

Eric decides to make two new ones, not just one. Just in case.

***

Gerry has just finished ushering his second formers out of his classroom and is trying to find the right key on his rather unhandy bundle of keys to lock up when West comes out of his lab. He is wearing a lab coat and that expression on his face that means something is possibly going to blow up in the next five minutes.

'Hey, West!' Gerry says. 

'Hello Gerry,' West replies and tilts his head contemplatively. 'I have something you might enjoy.'

'Is it a bomb?' Gerry asks. Maybe he is being a bit too enthusiastic about it, but he hasn't got any plans for his lunch break and really, watching West blow stuff up is fun. Two third formers who happen to walk past quicken their steps. 

Gerry follows before West can pull the door to his classroom shut.

'It's a demonstration I prepared for my first formers,' West says, stepping behind his work top.

'Is it a bomb?' Gerry repeats.

West gives Gerry a look that makes Gerry ask himself whether West maybe related to Orlando.

'I am not in the habit of teaching ten year olds how to build bombs.'

'But you could, aye?' Gerry replies with a grin.

'Do you want to see the experiment or not?'

Gerry makes a motion of zipping his mouth shut which is rather difficult considering his huge grin. His face falls, however, when West produces something from under his work top.

'West,' Gerry says. 'I like you and all that, but really, I don't think I want to see where this is going.'

West frowns at him. Gerry shakes his head and, for good measure, takes a step back. He points at what West is holding.

'I don't want to see your experiment. That is a nappy, and I really don't want to see your experiment.'

West stares at him like Gerry is the crazy person in this lab. And honestly, one of the reasons why Gerry is mates with West is because in comparison to West Gerry comes across as incredibly well adjusted and what boring people would call normal. West is still holding the nappy and he lets out a giant sigh.

'You are worse than my first formers,' he judges. Gerry has actually never denied that but he still looks skeptically at West's nappy.

'Okay, fine. Watch me be all mature and shit,' he says with resolve. 'That is a nappy. What are you gonna do with it?'

To Gerry's relief, West doesn't continue by putting it on. What he does is just minimally less whacky, though. He takes out a giant pair of scissors and cuts the nappy open, pulling out its cottony contents and shaking them out over a bowl, already containing some of the stuff.

'This is sodium polyacrylate,' he says when Gerry steps closer (cautiously) to get a better look at the bowl's contents. It looks pretty unspectacular, like two handfuls of salt really.

'Okay,' Gerry says anyway.

West nods.

'It's a super absorbant polymer,' West continues his explanation while taking a half step to the left to fill a small glass with water from the tab. 'It has the ability to expand up to 100 times of its original size in just a couple of seconds.'

'Okay,' Gerry says again. He is a little bit more enthusiastic about it again. Chances are that there is something going to be blown up.

'And it can become to 99.9% liquid,' West says and holds out the glass of water to Gerry. 'Here, pour it over what the inlay of the nappy has been covered in.'

Only with minimal hesitation Gerry takes the glass. If this is the day he dies, then so be it.

'Go ahead,' West encourages and crosses his arms in front of his chest. 

He is not diving behind his work top for cover, so Gerry figures there is a chance that he might live. Bravely, he pours the water over the sodium polywhatever.

Pretty much instantly the small bowls can't hold its content any longer, and the absorbing polymer spills over the rim onto the work top, looking exactly like - 

'Wow,' Gerry says. He looks at the work top, then at West, then at the rainy, decidedly unchrismassy weather outside the window, then at the work top again. 'Wow.'

'Thought you might like that,' West says.

'Is it safe to -' Gerry says and points at the mess between them.

West nods.

'Sure, go ahead.'

This time Gerry doesn't hesitate at all and grabs the stuff with both hands. It doesn't just look like the real thing, it actually feels quite a lot like it as well.

'You are my favourite person,' Gerry says, hands digging in and forming shapes instantly. 'You made snow out of a nappy.'

'It's not actually snow,' West corrects. 'Clearly. Snow is consists of ice crystals that precipitate from the atmosphere (usually from clouds) and undergo changes on the Earth's surface. It pertains to frozen crystalline water throughout its life cycle, starting when, under suitable conditions, the ice crystals form in the -'

'Uh-huh,' Gerry interrupts him without looking up. Pulling his chewed on pencil from his shirt pocket he sticks it into the top of his creation, the looks up at West.

'Look, I made you a snow man!'

***

Miranda enters Arnor House through the big veranda doors that stand wide open despite it being December. The main common room that they lead to still smells faintly of what is possibly cheap frankincense from a spraycan, and the handful of fifth formers gathered around the pool table seem imprevious to the slightly chilly air. Marissa Glosham nods at her and gives the plates of cookies she is carrying a hungry glance, the rest is too engrossed in their game to even notice her.

The usual little post it note is on Viggo's door, informing everyone who wants to know to search for him at Eric's, and when Miranda knocks there, a mutual 'Come in, it's open' is the answer.

Viggo gives her a smile when he sees her, and Miranda has to say that it is mostly due to him moving his head that she spots him. He is sitting on the carpet in front of the sofa, and not only are the big black and white rhombus shapes on the carpet rather distracting, most of Viggo is wrapped in a black blanket. Only his head sticks out at one and, and his feet - clad in woolen socks in Eric's favourite blue that look like Orlando's handiwork - peek out from the other.

'Who is it?' Eric asks, or at least Miranda assumes from Viggo's answer that this is the question. Eric is lying belly down on the large sofa and hasn't bothered shifting his head to enquire himself, words muffled by the sofa cushions against his face. His right arm is draped over Viggo's shoulder and chest, like a human sized paper clip, locking Viggo in place.

'I brought you cookies my second formers made after your recipe,' Miranda says, mostly to Eric who uses his left foot to wave at her in response.

'What are you watching?' she then adds, once she took one look at the big television screen.

'It's Eric's fault,' Viggo immediately answers.

Eric doesn't deny it. While in slow motion he rolls onto his side to be able to see Miranda after all and then yawns, Miranda watches with some confusion how someone fashions a mobile phone holder out of an actual paper clip and a candlestick out of a fork.

'Life hacks,' Eric finally says when he is done yawning.

Viggo's attention is already back to watching how someone makes a grilled sandwich with a flatiron.

'Why?' Miranda asks as she puts the cookies down within reaching distance of both of them.

Eric makes a lax gesture at the armchair next to the window in invitation before rolling onto his stomach again.

'Incredibly relaxing.'

'Incredibly addictive,' Viggo says, sounding both enthralled and critical.

Miranda laughs quietly and shakes her head. But she does sit herself down, and when she gets up, somehow two hours have passed and she does indeed feel pleasantly sleepy.

***

Truth or Dare happens to be in fashion (again) this winter. So during one rainy lunch break on December, 13th, third formers, fifth formers and lower sixers are playing it at the same time.

'I dare you,' says Jay Robinshaw, snickering, to Ben Wheedon, 'to say to Mr Hill that you don't want to discuss Christmassy poetry but porn.'

'It's called erotica,' corrects Florentine Bishop without looking up from her yogurt.

'I dare you,' says Matthias O'Keefe to the top of Brian Carry's head which he happens to hold in a headlock at that time, 'to suggest to Mr Urban that we do our final wrestling class next week dressed as Santas.'

'Mrmrbmsh,' replies Brian against Matthias's decidedly stinky armpit.

'I dare you,' says Philippa Jenkins to Frida North, an evil gleam in her eyes worthy of de Sade, 'since Mr Parker sprained his ankle and can't very well accompany us to Winterwonderland - to ask Mr Bloom to come ice skating with us.'

'I regret not yet having made my last will,' Frida replies wistfully. 

Meanwhile, the upper sixers of course are way too mature for nonsense such as 'Truth or Dare'.

'So, Mr Monaghan, Mr Bana, Mr James,' Maria Durham says in a very dignified and adult manner to Jenny Carsington. 'Marry, shag, kill?'

***

One Lebkuchen a day keeps the Christmas stress away. At least according to Craig's mother. She would also adapt that (already adapted) saying to 'One Lebkuchen a day keeps the Christmas blues away' or to 'keeps the crying attacks away' or to 'the neighbours' or even 'the doctor', mostly because their local doctor really didn't fancy Lebkuchen.

Anyway, Craig has always found it to be working very well on him. Every time his mom sends him one of those large care parcels filled with delicious, delicious Christmas goods, he tries to share. Both the Christmas spirit and the Lebkuchen.

This year, it is with slightly mixed results.

Harry, who just spent ten minutes trying to calm down a second former with a massive hissy fit, just stares at Craig blankly. Craig would say it is because he just didn't hear what Craig said because he suffered a tinnitus or because Craig isn't speaking Latin, and it's one of those days with Harry. But he is holding a plate in front of him, so the offer should even be obvious to the deaf.

Bernard is in the middle of an epic battle with the copying machine and curses Craig with quite creative curse words that sound like he all got them straight out of a Dickens novel. Then he tells him that Marianne put him on a diet. And since Marianne is omniscient she will find out if he cheats. So, no thank you, you blasted zounderkite.

Gerry is frantically trying to put out a small fire on a table in the teachers' lounge and doing a so-so job of it. He nearly knocks the plate out of Craig's hand and yells, 'sorry, sorry, mate' five times whilst using his heavy bio book to squash the flames (and the Christmas wreath on fire with it).

Dom West stares into the fire which he undoubtedly started. Without taking his eyes off of it he remarks very politely to Craigh that he isn't stressed at all, thank you. 

Craig backs away slowly.

He bumps into Sean while doing so. Sean beams at him and instantly helps himself to two Lebkuchen from Craig's plate.

'You don't look particularly stressed by Christmas,' Craig remarks as the first Lebkuchen disappears between Sean's lips.

Sean grins around it and shakes his head.

'Nope, I'm good, actually,' he says. Then he takes a third Lebkuchen.

***

'Vig, I got you something!'

Eric's voice is loud enough to easily reach Viggo on the balcony. And even though his cigarette isn't even half smoked, he puts it out after another drag. Not that he would admit that to anyone, but as beautiful as nature is and as much as he appreciates all her moods and weathers in theory, the wind and the rain make his bones ache. Also, there is just something resonating in Eric's words, something like amusement and wistfulness and Christmas cheer all entangled like hopelessly knotted up fairy lights.

'Where are you?' he calls back when he has stepped into the kitchen again and Eric is nowhere to be seen. For a moment, he is unable to go searching because he needs to rub one sock-clad foot warm with the other, while his hands to the same to each other and he crinkles his nose which sadly has no one to rub against and thus remains cold.

Instead of answering him, Eric appears in the door frame, both hands empty.

'Where is my present?' Viggo asks, fighting for balance.

Eric laughs out loud and leans agains the wooden frame, blocking the way.

'There is a story behind it, all right?'

'Uh-huh,' says Viggo and decides that his feet are warm enough. He steps up to Eric and ignores him in favour of looking past him. What he sees on his living room table makes him take a step back again and look at Eric skeptically.

Eric laughs again.

'I told you there is a story behind it. It isn't any old Christmas tree.'

'No,' Viggo agrees, tilting his head and taking a second look. Nope, it's not getting better. 'It's a really, really ugly one.'

'Don't say that.' Eric's reproach isn't even trying to sound sincere. 'I thought you of all people would be moved by it.'

'Me of all people? Because you think I look like,' Viggo makes a vague gesture at the thing on his living room table. 'That?'

'Because you got a heart the size of Australia, mate,' Eric corrects him. 'For all kinds of ugly creatures. Like that first former this afternoon, with the haircut that made him look like a demented Lego person.'

'Andy's hairstyle is a bit unfortunate,' Viggo agrees and uses the sleeve of his jumper to warm up his nose. 'All right, tell me the story then. Of how you thought that I would want a Christmas tree and one looking like that, too.'

Eric clears his throat and a tiny furrow appears on his forehead. Personally, Viggo thinks that subtlety in terms of acting isn't really Eric's strong suit, but he looks at him expectantly anyway. Eric clears his throat again.

'Okay, so I was in the village, yeah? And you know they have this Christmas tree sale going on there at Miller's.'

'I know. They spelled "Cristmas" wrong on their sign next to the road.'

'Exactly. So I was walking past, and I thought, hey, Viggo might like the scent of pines in his living room. You know, to accompany the pine scented bubble bath you insist on using right now.'

'It is December,' Viggo reminds him.

Eric nods.

'So it is. Anyway, in the spirit of that, I walked into their yard to get you a tree. And there I was, surrounded by one perfect specimen next to the other, from three metres high to about thirty centimetres. I had my eyes set on one about this high.' 

He holds out his hand to the height of about his shoulder, then uses both hands to recreate the outline of it while he continues, his voice suddenly sensual. 

'You know, shaped just right, with nice round curves and just the right size.'

He is grinning now, and Viggo shakes his head.

'So you wanted to buy me a sexy tree. But didn't. She turned you down cause she didn't fancy being leered at by a tall Aussie with a bobble hat?'

'No, mate, because I wasn't stoned off my head,' Eric replies, and now it is his turn to shake his head before his face turns all serious again. 'No, what happened was that I had all but bought the tree when I spotted this scrawny little thing in a corner. Looking like that, and like it had been trying really hard but never really managed to get a hang of this whole growing straight and having the proper amount of needles lark.'

He sighs and shrugs and shifts a little to the side, all at the same time, as Viggo squeezes past him.

'What can I say, I knew no one else would buy it. And I know, I know, I got too soft a heart, but I just had to give the little guy a chance to shine.'

'Uh huh,' says Viggo from the living room.

Eric grabs an apple from the assortment of fruit on the shoe cabinett and follows. Viggo stands next to the living room table.

'Eric?

'Yes, mate?'

Viggo points at the crooked tree.

'It's plastic.'

Apple between his teeth, Eric lets his eyebrows arch up in a mockery of shock and surprise, but only for the length of time it takes him to chew his chunk of apple into obedience.

'Course it is,' he then replies. 'Like you'd enjoy having a tree cut down just for the sake of putting it up in your flat.'

Viggo's eyes are on the tree again.

'It'd be like propping up a corpse of a loved one in your living room,' he mutters anyway. 'And hanging baubles from his dead ears.'

'Exactly,' Eric agrees and flops down on the couch.

Somewhat reluctantly, Viggo reaches out and pokes a branch. The tree sways dangerously.

'They don't have plastic trees at Miller's.'

'Nope,' Eric agrees again. 

'So where'd you get it?'

'Amazon.'

Viggo turns around. The sudden movement in the air is too much for the plastic cripple, and it topples over. Viggo glances at it, then at Eric.

'You should send it back. There seems to be something wrong with it.'

Eric nods, but he seems fairly unconcerned nor angry at Amazon for delivering faulty goods.

'Yeah, it didn't look like that when it arrived.'

Viggo snorts, picks up the tree and takes it with him as he sits down on the sofa as well. Eric munches on his apple as they both inspect it for a moment.

'Did you get way-layed on the way here?' Viggo guesses, pulling at one of the branches to see whether that improves anything. It doesn't. 'By some tree haters? The United Shrubbery Radicals or something?'

Eric shakes his head.

'I was late for class this morning, so I took the parcel with me and unpacked it while my A-level was supposed to be busy doing course work. But guess what, they were more interested in what I got in the mail.'

'You don't say.'

'Shocking, I know. Anyway, I pulled the tree out and it looked kinda all right, I guess, for a plastic tree that came in a box. But then Noah Friedman pointed out that the right side and the left side of it didn't really match up.'

Eric interrupts his rivetting recollection in favour of eating more of his apple. Viggo pokes him with the mutilated top of the tree.

'And?'

Eric shrugs.

'We had a pair of scissors. One thing led to another. We thought we could rectify that error. Turns out we were wrong.'

Viggo looks at the living proof of that. The tree looks like it has survived multiple rides in a wood chipper.

'Well, thank you for this lovely gift, Eric,' he concludes.

Eric pats his shoulder.

'You're very welcome, mate.'

***

Boris loves Karl and he loves Beth, maybe almost as much as Karl. Enough to even let them have the bed most of the time and to let them win in play fights. Because they get what is important in life and that is running in the woods with enough time to sniff and dig holes. And food and cuddles.

But one thing he really does not understand. It is one of those days when both Karl and Beth sleep a little later until Boris has to wake them. And on those days they normally have all the time to go for an extended run in the woods.

But instead they sit on the couch and yell things at the big box at the other side on the room. In the box tiny humans play around with wood tied to their feet. It looks like fun. Boris wants to chase them. But he knows it is pointless because all the people living in the box never want to play with him.

With a big sigh he curls up on the carpet under the coffee table. At least Karl uses his feet to stroke his back occasionally. Humans, though.

***

There is some snowfall over Jackson College this Sunday morning - real snow, mind you, not the bits of artificial crap that have been appearing all over the place throughout the week. 

Subsequently, there is a steady ebb and flow of pupils streaming in and out of Arnor House's favoured exit point, the large veranda doors in the main common room. 

Everyone, including the long suffering house mother, has long ago given up even trying to stop the Arnorians from messing up the floorboards with their dirty boots as they take the shortcut through the room to fetch their mates / a dry pair of gloves / a shovel (it's not that much snow, really. And why a fourth former has a shovel in their room in the first place should maybe be reason for concern). 

A couple of teachers wander in as well as the morning progresses. Gerry claims, when a second year Arnorian questions his roaming the hallway, that he is looking for Eric, but really, Simon Parker is sure he just lost his pony again. Miranda drops by to borrow some baking soda and Emma to borrow Viggo's edition of Dickens's Chrismas caroll which they find in the shoe cupboard and the pantry (respectively). They receive help from two long-suffering girls and Simon Parker who gave up his search for the Christmas pony by that time. 

All of them know very well that neither muddy boot prints nor items in demand can be expected to be addressed by Viggo or Eric, even though both of them are sat in the upper common room, very much in plain sight of everything and everyone.

The reason for that is the t-shirt that Eric got today in Viggo's daily Christmas presents countdown. When Viggo bought it, he was very aware that this would be an instant hit with Eric - "And God said" at the beginning and "let there be light" at the end are clear enough for Viggo to understand, it's the equations linking the two together that Eric would delight in.

And sure enough, for two or three hours, Eric uses his own chest as a blackboard as he explains what exactly the signs and occasional numbers mean and how at the end of it there will definitely be light. Viggo has his feet tucked under as he sits on the carpet, the Arnorian way, and Eric talks mathematics on the sofa. Occasionally one of the kids from Eric's or from West's A-level slows down and listens in for a moment or two, and Viggo is pretty sure they understand more of the maths and physics, if not the passion, than he does.

***

(written with gattodoro and noalinnea)

Orlando apparently called a kid from his AS-level "mate". The kid nearly fainted. Actually, Orlando said ‘bait’ – Boris is on the loose.

Sean is watched carefully by the security people from TESCO because he keeps lingering for such long periods in the biscuits section that they suspect he might be out to put poison in them. But really, a man is entitled to inhale the biscuity goodness before choosing a box.

Gerry bought a sleigh online. He hopes Al Capony will approve of his choice. 

Dom coloured his hair Christmas tree green. Christopher nearly had a heart attack. 

Viggo tried singing Georgian chants under the shower. With lyrics that Eric had made up whilst emptying the dishwasher.

A pupil that should really be watched out for tried to light West's winter coat on fire. The talking to that West gave him may not be the best suited for the crime.

Bernard really, really likes mustard on his salad. Yes, Marianne is still making him diet. Or well, eat less sweets. But the salads to be had in the Hill household atm? To die for.

Over the course of the past two weeks, Orlando taught seven of his classes by reading out a quote Richard sent to him in the morning and adding a 'Go!' to it. Very heated debates followed. Particularly, for some reason, when the Peanuts were concerned. As Charlie Brown once said, I’ve developed a new philosophy. I only dread one day at a time!

Karl test-wore his outfit for his boxing day bash all day today. Beth is all in favour of it, but at the end of the day pointed out that maybe miniature Speedos might discourage the guests from, you know, coming. In more than one way.

Orlando's favourite comic book hero is Batman. Viggo's is Tintin. Gerry’s is Oor Wullie. Eric is a not-so secret fan of Captain Goodvibes.

Last Wednesday, Eric dreamt that Gerry gave him a scented cardboard tree / air freshener for the Falcon for Christmas. Eric made him eat it.

Harry tried to teach Viggo actual Georgian Chants. No one approved of that.

Sean went to York and bought himself three very fashionable tweed jackets and one flat cap. When he mentioned that over dinner at the Pony, Ashley and Orlando simultaneously pretended to look under the table, searching for the matching whippet. Sean would absolutely get a whippet if he thought that Boris wouldn’t eat it.

Craig receives very, very random things from Amazon every day. He thinks that either it is an error in the system or Cate got Prime and is pranking him. In fact, Craig has a secret admirer in year 10.

1/2 of Orlando's black cardigans are covered in stripper glitter again.

There is a new rule at Palm House that allows you to stay up for twenty minutes longer if you're wearing a Christmas related costume. All the other houses agree that the Palmers are completely bonkers.

When Orlando was about to step into the shower, his phone buzzes. The message from Richard reads: 'As long as you're in there, you might as well think about this- “People know what they do; frequently they know why they do what they do; but what they don't know is what what they do does.” (Michel Foucault) I'm making coffee, see you in the kitchen.'

When Richard changed the sheets in the afternoon, he found glitter clinging to them.

There is a new rule at Mirkwood House which says you'll be send to bed twenty minutes earlier if you're wearing a Christmas themed costume.

Sean has been splashing the cash a lot for a man from God’s Own County. He acquired eight new boardgames for the winter holidays. West (and the underaged firebug) hopes his purchases include Exploding Kittens Bernard is hoping for WineOpoly.

Cate spent the better part of the day trying to sneak away and wrap Christmas presents but kept being walked in on, until she claimed she would take a bath, poured herself a glass of wine, locked herself into the bathroom and finished the wrapping in there. After she was done she might have leaned back against the tub and closed her a eyes for a second or two.

Miranda had dinner with a guy who- for a change- wasn't dull at all. And quite handsome, really.

At the end of the day, Eric wanted nothing than to fall asleep next to Viggo, but almost changed his mind when Viggo came into the bedroom still chanting those godawful chants.

***

It should be noted that West is the most avid supporter of Johnny's nativity concept this year. Not one to be overly involved - or even vaguely interested - in school matters normally, West usually doesn't care one way or the other. In fact, the only reason why he usually hopes for a whacky theme for the Christmas performance of Johnny's drama club is that the staff room's rabid atheist will throw less of a hissy fit that way.

This year, though? West finds himself somewhat invested. He even considered volunteering to help out with the special effects, though he supposes his offer would have been declined anyway (people are so delicate about lighting their stage dressing on fire, really).

There is, of course a good reason for that. West has not suddenly been kissed by the Christmas spirit (nor does he want to because he thinks that the Christmas spirit is probably Viggo, and drunk). Nor is he trying to prove a point to Gerry (which he doesn't think necessary anyway. Gerry talks to ponies, it's not like he is that sane either).

No, the reason is that Johnny's nativity play this year will be very heavily Star Wars themed and he loves Star Wars.

They have light sabers, for heaven's sake!

***

'I will order my kids to drag you out, if you don't do it voluntarily.'

'No, thank you.'

'Spoilsport.'

Sean, who just raised his mug of (delicious) steaming tea to his lips, lowers it again to look at Orlando incredulously.

'Did the Grinch who stole Christmas just call me a spoilsport?'

Orlando reflexively looks over his shoulder to check whether any of their kids are looking their way. But they are too busy falling on their behinds on the ice of York's wonderful Winter Wonderland to pay them any mind. Orlando flips Sean off with a mittened hand.

'Why did you even come, if you never planned to at least give it a try?' he insists anyway of course.

Sean shrugs and leans his lower arms on the railing that seperate him and the rest of the sane adults from the ice and Orlando.

'Wanted to see you fall on your bum, didn't I?'

Orlando scoffs.

'For one thing, I wasn't even meant to chaperone this when you agreed to come,' he reasons immediately, 'and for another, I am really good at this.'

'So I noticed,' Sean says and makes sure to let the disappointment audible in his voice.

Orlando flips him off again. A fourth year, padded in warm clothes to a point of unrecognizability, topples over on the ice as a consequence.

'What was that with you and Charlie Franks earlier?' Orlando asks, mirroring Sean's posture on his side of the railing. 'I saw you traumatizing him from afar.'

Sean chuckles.

'I am not in the habit of traumatizing any child. He insisted that he wasn't gonna go and ice skate because it is "wimpy", and I merely suggested he should try and say that to any ice hockey player of his choice.'

Thankfully, no JC kid happens to pass at this moment because the broad smile on Orlando's face might have resulted in someone accidentally slicing their throat with the blade of their skate.

Sean, too, smirks and drinks from his tea.

'I knew you'd like that.'

'Charlie Franks is a muppet,' Orlando says with a shrug. 'And while I doubt that a proper beating will change that, I guess there is no harm in trying. More ridiculous things have been reported to have happened during this time of the year.'

'I have no clue why some people question your suitability as a head of house.'

In 0.2 seconds Orlando's frown is back and so is the glare with the power to turn even the Thames into an ice skating paradise. Sean sips from his tea.

'You spending Christmas with your made up doctor?' he asks instead.

'No,' Orlando replies dryly. 'And I'd appreciate it if you'd just say that you want to meet him instead of trying to be subtle about it. Because you suck at it.'

Sean laughs and instantly looks guilty because a fourth former (who just happened to collide face first with another one's bum) blushes furiously, thinking Sean's mirth is directed at him. Sean shakes his head and smiles reassuringly before looking back at Orlando.

'You're bringing him to Karl's and Eric's Boxing Day shindig then?'

Orlando's response isn't immediate for once, something that Sean would comment on if half of his attention weren't on the ice again. There three JCers chase each other with way too little finesse and regard for the well-being of others. As it is, he is just done scowling over the ice and thus getting the three to slow down again, when Orlando replies.

'You're staying in JC for the whole holidays?'

'Yes,' Sean confirms and grins broadly when he sees Orlando's lips twitch in response.

'You know, Lando,' he says in an imitation of Orlando's earlier tone of voice, plus an extra layer of mockery, 'I'd appreciate it if you'd just say what you want instead of trying to be subtle about it. You suck at it.'

Orlando's face makes a funny thing, amusement and disapproval clashing, then he rolls his eyes and makes a conceding gesture.

'Will you mind my house for a couple of days, over New Year's, while I'm away?'

Sean weighs his head from side to side as if indecisive.

'Ah, that's a bit inconvenient. I'm a bit swamped already, what with all the plans I have?'

Orlando scoffs.

'Like what, learning how to ice skate?'

'Like meeting up with all my made up friends, for instance.'

Orlando lets out a long-suffering sigh, loud enough for not just passing JCers but also random other people to give him an extra-wide berth. Then he puts up his fakest of fake smiles that makes parents at parent-teacher-evenings think he will stab them with a stiletto knife under the table any moment. With that firmly cut into his face he asks,

'Sean, say, do you want to meet Richard? I'd be delighted to introduce you to him.'

Sean laughs out loud at that and nearly spills the rest of his tea in the process. He pushes himself away from the railing and raises his mug to indicate that he is in need of a refill.

'Whatever,' he says lightly, then without missing a beat shouts, 'Noah, if you don't leave it, I will come over there and drag you off the bloody ice!' only to then immediately follow that up with his more indoor-y voice again. 'Course I'll watch over your kids; you go ahead and make plans for your romantic getaway.'

And before Orlando can protest, he turns around to remedy the situation with the lack of tea.

***

 

Sometimes, when Sean is just a little overworked - the kind when he can't even remember having one moment for himself, no crisis to avert, no papers to grade, no parents to pacify, no arguing colleagues to pull apart, no tears to dry - the best moment of his day is when he waits for the kettle.

He stands in his kitchen and closes his eyes as the sound of the boiling water drowns out the noises of the day. He stands, with his empty mug in his hand, and when he pours and the strong smell of freshly brewed PG Tips rises up with the steam, the smile is back on his lips.

***

When Viggo wakes up from his short impromptu nap (however that happened; it's not even five in the afternoon on a Thursday, for heaven's sake), he finds that he fell asleep in the common kitchen and he can't really move. The latter is not due to spontaneous paralysis, however, but to three scarves in JC's colours being used to tie his legs and his torso to the chair he is sitting on.

He hears badly suppressed high pitch giggles from the hallway and briefly considers texting Eric to rescue him. He doesn't. Instead he says, rather loudly, that it is against the Geneva conventions to hold him prisoner without supplying him with milk and cookies as well.

***

Naturally, there is a massive traffic jam in front of JC's main gate, come Friday afternoon when parents all rush in to collect their offspring. There is some honking, some laughter (particularly when one elderly English teacher gets dragged right across the street by an overly enthusiastic Rottweiler), a lot of sighing and 'come on now' in the cars.

As for the waiting kids? Most just sit on their bags or are huddled up inside the lobby, happy that two weeks of holidays lie ahead of them, plus high hopes for a massive amount of presents.

It's Kaylee Matthew's first year at Jackson College, and she is rather anxious that her parents don't just drive past her. So she stands right on the edge of the sidewalk and waves furiously when she spots her mother's Jaguar in the distance. She actually keeps up the waving for the whole four minutes it takes for the Jag to slowly crawl up to her, and her father hasn't even fully gotten out of the car when she beams at him and greets him with,

'Dad, Santa Pony took a dump in the biology lap this morning!'

***

Say what you want about Karl's manners - or the lack of them. But he maintains a very good relationship with the village's elderly population. Fine, maybe not with all of them. That old guy with the pug keeps yelling at Karl even though it is his stupid dog who keeps making moony eyes at Boris. And the old cow at the bakery stopped talking to him some time in May only cause Karl told her her bread smelled of feet. Which it did.

But the gang of old geezers who hang out at the Pony? They and Karl are best pals which means that Karl knows way more than any man under 70 probably should know about prostate problems. And they stopped trying to get him banned from the pub just because he keeps beating them at darts. Because his are the only eyes that still work properly.

The day before Christmas Eve that absolutely pays off for Karl. The Pony is very much decked for Christmas - in fact all the decoration would be enough for ten pubs - and the majority of patrons possibly wants to sit around and listen to Christmas music or whatever. The old geezers disagree, though, and they are in control of the television in the corner. Have been since before Karl was born, or so they claim.

So the evening before Christmas Eve, all the Pony's patrons get treated to several hours of dart world championship.

***

Around noon on Christmas Eve, Eric and Sean both, seperately from one another, run errands for their friends who, in Eric's and Sean's humble opionion, don't qualify as proper adults.

Eric received fifteen texts in allcaps from Gerry who, already far away in Glasgow, is suddenly not sure whether he turned the stove off. 

Gerard [11:21 a.m.]: I NEED YOU TO CHECK MY STOVE AND IT NEEDS TO BE YOU BECAUSE IF I ASKED WEST WE BOTH KNOW THAT JC WOULD BURN DOWN THEN FOR SURE

Gerry of course has a point. In fact, Eric thinks as he puts on his bobble hat and makes his way to the main building, West would probably turn the stove on to get exactly that result. And as boring as Chrismas holidays at home may be from time to time, Eric doesn't really think a fire is the way to go here.

In the meantime, Sean is on his way to Karl's flat after receiving a somewhat cryptic text (one, not fifteen) from him.

Karl [11:21 a.m.]: Can U come to my place asap? Bring ladder and key 2 my flat

If the text was from anyone else, Sean would at least write back before he sets off. However, Karl is not in the habit of writing pointless texts. Also, Sean just confiscated a rope ladder the day before yesterday from one of his kids whom he let off with a warning after the boy quoted 'Romeo and Juliet' at him at 11:30 in the evening and then broke out in tears. He kept the ladder of course and after he stuffed it into a Lidl bag, he pockets the keys to Karl's flat as well as his own car keys and is on his way.

Eric lets himself into Gerry's flat around the same time. The place is not on fire, nor is it particularly warm, so the chances that Gerry did leave the stove on are minimal. As a whole the place looks like Gerry abandoned it in extreme haste - like he was living in Pompeii in AD 79. Eric nearly breaks his neck right at the start because Gerry for some reason thought it a good idea to leave his clothes horse right in front of the door in the entrance hall. After tackling that obstacle, Eric also finds what must be all of Gerry's mugs unwashed in the sink. Eric laughs and shakes his head, checks whether the stove is indeed off and starts washing up after sending Gerry a text.

Eric [12:14 p.m.]: Was off. You're a pig, mate

A couple of minutes after twelve, Sean parks his car in front of the flat complex that Karl lives in. He rings the doorbell but while he hears Boris barking inside, no one opens.

Sean [12:14 p.m.]: I'm here. Where are you?

By the time Eric has cleaned the first mug (adorned with a faded photo showing Gerry with a foal in his arms), he received two responses from Gerry. One is a sequence of emoticons that make sense to no one but Gerry himself. The other one consists of actual words.

Gerry [12:17 p.m.]: Cheers! Check the fridge, mate

Sean is about to revert to knocking at the windows of Karl's even level flat but still waits for a text from him. It doesn't come. Instead, the very clear sound of Karl's best sports field bellow reaches him.

'Round the back, mate! Come to the wall!'

In Gerry's flat, Eric dries his hands on Gerry's dinosaur print kitchen towel, then does as the text suggested. If he was in West's flat, he would expect a bomb to go off or to find C4 in the fridge. With Gerry, it's less dangerous. The fridge is empty - Gerry is staying with his parents and mates for the whole two weeks of winter holidays - save for one huge plate that holds lime green and deep red jello. Eric's phone beeps again, announcing another text.

Gerard [12:20 p.m.]: MERRY CHRISTMAS, MATE!

Meanwhile, Sean, his pocketful of keys and his step-ladder-filled Lidl back made it to the eight feet high brick wall that surrounds the back garden of Karl's house. There is an iron wrought gate at the very end, that is perpetually rusted shut, and that is where Karl waits for him.

'Did you bring a ladder?' he asks, foregoing any sort of hello or how are you. Understandably so. He looks slightly blue in the face which makes sense because it is December and he is standing in his backyard in just his boxers.

Sean eyes the very prominent mistletoe that is printed onto the front of said boxer shorts but holds up his Lidl bag dutifully. Karl frowns but takes it through the spaces between the iron bars of the gate.

'Why?' Sean asks, the question somewhat vague but in his opinion rather fitting for the whole situation.

Karl grumbles and curses as he tries to unfold the ladder.

'I went out to kill the squirrel that Boris had been playing with,' he says because casual murder of cute animals on Christmas Eve makes sense in his head. 'And he was upset about it and shut me out.'

Quite efficiently, Karl works out how the ladder works and Sean whistles when it takes him exactly one try to get the hooks at one end over the wall. It's not as easy as he makes it look; it took Sean's kid Romeo five attempts and then he got the wrong window (Sean's).

Sean watches him climb the wall and then jump down on Sean's side.

'Your dog knows how to work the veranda door?' he asks then.

Karl gives him a look. Like Sean was the one standing in the middle of the road in just his underwear.

'Of course he does. Do you think Boris is stupid?'

While Sean is about to be beaten up for accidentally insulting Karl's precious puppy but then gets invited in for a beer for his troubles, Eric has abandoned the rest of the dirty mugs in the sink and started testing his Christmas jello with the only clean spoon (well, ladl to be honest) directly from the fridge. It is seriously delicious and Eric kind of wants to marry the raspberry bits in particular.

Coincidentally, they are done with most of their jello / all of their beer at the same time and each send a text to the love of their life / their sociopathic best mate.

Eric [1:01 p.m.]: So, sex?

Sean [1:01 p.m.]: So, Pony?

Somewhat tragically, neither of them receives an answer within the hour. One of the recipients is too busy doing a Christmas Day rehearsal at their house that is hugely popular with the kids because they even get to wrap and unwrap presents (albeit not in fancy wrapping paper but old newspapers; also the parcels are empty) in record time. The other recipient is 1500 words into an essay on Marx's introduction to his 'Contribution to the Critique of Hegel's philosophy of right' and is not going to look up from his laptop before he reached the 5k mark. Coincidentally, both are wearing the gift they got from their secret santa - one a miniature santa hat, the other a black sweater, 'Ba Humbug' printed onto it. 

***

It's after the unwrapping of presents (the rehearsal and the real deal), after baking gingerbread people, after the Christmas feast in the main building, after watching 'Doctor Who' in its theatre that Eric finds Viggo alone in his, Eric's flat, lying on the carpet.

Viggo's own rooms are a mess; this time of the year more than ever. The self-made baubles he got from his Secret Santa hang from the kitchen lamp, the crooked plastic tree still stands on the living room's table, surrounded by little mountains of Christmas mail that arrived over the last couple of days. Half-finished paintings are pinned to the dark blue walls, depicting Hindu gods, and underneath, on the coffee table, several half-dried clay statues - Cristo Redentor, the Virgin Mary from the village's church, and a smiling buddha. Several dozens of CDs lie strewn on the carpet in front of the sound system, their order not making sense to anyone but Viggo, and most of the floor in his study is covered in printouts from the internet and open books on a myriad of subjects from how to cook the perfect Christmas meal, over New Year's Eve traditions all over the world to different types of Georgian chants.

Most of the clothes he wore over the course of the last week don't lie around in midst all this; Viggo did get so far as to drop them all into his bathtub and then close the door behind him. But in the bedroom pretty much all doors and drawers are opened and since Viggo decided that he liked sleeping with the window wide open, an assortment of bobble hats and thick scarves are strewn over the bed.

On the rare occasions that Viggo's flat is cleaned up and everything is in its place, it's a warm space - dark blue and dark red, wood and thick fabrics, like the cord of the sofa cushions, the velvet of the bedrooms curtains. In December it is the bazar of a hoarder, is a refectory run by an eccentric, is a movie set for five different feature films at the same time.

Eric's flat isn't like that. He has three stacks of class tests on the desk in his study, books sorted by colour on the wall behind the desk. The couch in his living room is grey and big, and in the perfect angle to the big black TV screen mounted on the slate wall. All the walls except for that one are white, even the one that Viggo likes painting murals onto from time to time. 

The carpet shows black and grey and white squares and parallelograms. Viggo pushed the coffee table to the side and lies on his back, diagonally across. He looks up at the white ceiling. It's been a long month, a long day.

Eric kicks off his shoes and walks over and Viggo's gaze fixes on him. His lips twitch when Eric groans like an old man as he kneels down on the floor, then lies down as well. In turn Eric snickers when Viggo lets out an ostentatious 'oomph' sound as Eric beds his head on his stomach. Eric has to strain his eyes a bit to be able to look up at him from this angle.

He could ask 'you all right?' or 'good day?' or 'God, are you as full up as I am?' but he knows Viggo's answer to all three anyway. So he doesn't.

He closes his eyes when Viggo's fingers card through his hair, lightly hits Viggo's wrist when Viggo tugs at his ear.

***

[26/12/2017, 8:44 p.m.]  
   
'Hi. This is Richard Armitage. I can't answer the phone right now, but if you want you can leave a message and I'll call you back. Cheers.'

[rustling, the sound of people talking and singing - rather off-key, to Wham - in the background. A door gets closed and the noise dies down. It's followed by some more fumbling, accompanied by muttered incomprehensible curses, then finally] 

’...stupid fucking thing. - Ah, Richard, sorry bout this. Turns out, wearing gloves and trying to handle one's phone? Not my finest hour. But anyway, hiya. It's Orlando. I just saw you called a bit ago, I didn't hear it over the noise. Not sure whether you're still on the way home right now, I guess we've established that the reception in the Dales is shit. But anyway, if you haven't driven -’ 

[Instant noise cuts Orlando off in the middle of his sentence as the veranda door is being pulled open again, then a voice - very loud] 

’Lando, come on, it's our song, and you're out here having a wank or whatever.’

’Fuck off, Dom. Can't you see I'm on the fucking phone?’ 

’But it's 'Fairytale of New York', man! ‘

’I don't need the excuse of Christmas songs to insult you. Go away.’ 

’You scumbag, you maggot, you cheap lousy faggot!’ 

’Yeah, yeah, whatever.’ 

[The veranda door is pulled shut again and the music is cut off once more. Orlando huffs and his lighter clicks next to his phone's speaker]

’Sorry bout that, mate. It's not even nine and Dom can't stand straight anymore. I'm at my mates' boxing day do, the one with the beach theme? It's actually just Karl and his girl friend in beach gear and that's close to their working outfit, I suppose. So, it's really a pretty normal party, maybe save for the indoor barbeque and the beach towels everywhere. So, if you haven't already driven past by now, you're welcome to drop by and you wouldn't even have to bring Speedos. Up to you, though, and -’

[Again, the veranda door is being pulled open again - the sound of even more off-key singing (this time to The Pogues) - drifts out and the person exiting the living room (Karl) bellows the last couple of lyrics back into the room before addressing Orlando]

’I'VE BUILD MY DREAMS AROUND YOU!! - Bloom! Get the fuck inside!’ 

’I'm on the bloody phone.’ 

’Who are you talking to? Everyone you know is already here!’ 

’You're hilarious.’ 

’Hey, whoever Orlando is talking to -’

’Richard.’ 

[Rustling, then Karl's voice is much closer to the speaker] 

’Hey, Richard, come over for a beer!’ 

[more rustling, the distinct sound of Orlando's growl and Karl's responding bark of laughter before Karl whistles and actual excited barking can be heard, then the sound of the veranda door again, and relative silence in its wake. Another moment of quietness from Orlando, then a low chuckle] 

’I realize that this wasn't the best advertising for this party, so I won't hold it against you if you pretend you never received this invitation. Anyway, I'll text you Karl's address if you're in the mood, but no worries if you'd rather not. Talk to you soon, all right?’

***

(written by noalinnea)

'Your ass is buzzing, mate.'

'You don't say.'

'Who's calling at this hour?'

'It's as if you don't know me at all.'

'Viggo?'

'Obviously. Off you go, then. -- When did you change your caller ID picture?’

 ‘While you were asleep. Eric?’

'Yes?'

'That chicken curry you make.'

'Yes?'

'Can I make that with pork?'

'Sure. You can’t call it chicken curry then, though. Why didn't you just get chicken?'

'Sean was in charge of meat.'

'So pork steak, hm? Just make some fried potatoes to go with it?'

'I told him I would cook a proper meal.'

'I think that qualifies a proper meal.'

'Sean says hi and it doesn't.'

'Tell him his car doesn't qualify as a car.’

‘Fair point. Are you having a good time?'

'Yes. It’s quite the party, actually. My money is on Dom for falling asleep on the couch and waking up with a moustache drawn onto his face. Or being slobbered to death by Boris. And I told I would not be the only one wearing boardies. I’ll send you a picture of me and Karl. And Orlando, but he isn’t dressed up, he just walked into the picture.’

‘Figures. Spoil sport.'

‘Oh, but by the way, pass me over to Sean. His secret boyfriend is here.'

‘Sean has a secret boyfriend?'

‘No. But Orlando does.’

'Really? Why don’t I know that? What does- hey! --- Eric?’

‘Hiya.’

‘Orlando brought Richard?’

‘If that’s what he’s called?’

‘What does he look like?'

'I dunno- tall, dark, a little lost.'

‘Handsome?' 

'I'd say so. But don't tell Vig.'

'Vig says he's sure he looks like a moron.'

'Nah, he doesn't. And it's actually all very promising, he just survived one of Dom’s 20-minute-monologues without even once calling for help and a straightjacket. And you should see him with Orlando. But why haven't you met him, of all people?'

'Orlando keeps hiding him.'

'Do you want me to put him on the phone?'

'Absolutely not. But Viggo wants to speak to him.'

'Yeah, we are not doing that. But put him back on.

‘--- as if I would be--- Hej. Did you miss me?’

‘Always. But listen, I'm going to crash here.'

'I figured. Sean and I have big plans.'

'If they don't involve my apartment I don't want to know.'

'They kind of do.'

'Just don't tell me and vacuum afterwards.'

'Alright. I see you tomorrow, then. Have fun.'

'Will do.'

'Oh, oh, oh, and Eric, check if he has horns!'

***

‘I’m telling you, man, I’ve seen them twice. They are doing this weird stand-up comedy thing as husband and wife,’ Karl says and takes a sip from his- very green- drink, barely dodging the little umbrella that tries to blind him.

‘Who?’ Dom asks and elbows Orlando out of the way so that he can fit through the kitchen door.

‘Eric and Gerry,’ Orlando says.

‘You are doing stand-up comedy?’ Dom asks Eric who snorts beer through his nose in response to his question.

‘Oh come on,’ Orlando says. ‘Every pub in York has your flyers lying around.’

Karl shakes his head, feigning disappointment.

‘And you’re not even telling your mates? That’s cruel, man.’

Eric is still laughing.

‘Which one of you is in drag?’ Dom asks.

‘What do you think?’ Orlando says with a grin.

‘Gerry!’ Beth says.

‘Eric?!’ Dom asks, managing to sound both incredulous and thrilled.

Eric almost doubles over with laughter.

'Just imagine-' he manages to get out between violent laughing fits, 'Gerry in a dress-- and blonde wig-- with the beard--- and the accent---'

 

***

‘You're -- hungry?’ Beth guesses, trying to make sense of what Karl tries to signal her without words.

Karl shakes his head and tries again.

Beth furrows her brows.

‘You’re--- I don’t know! You need another drink? No? You want to- what's this movement supposed to mean? You want to make a movie?’

‘Man, you two really suck at this!' Tom says. 'Eric can read Dom better than you can read your boyfriend!'

Beth scowls at him.

'It's a stupid game. Ngh- stop doing that- that looks- gross, Karl!

Karl just laughs.

Boris appears in the doorway, wagging his tail. After regarding Karl's terrible pantomime for two moments he makes a beeline for Beth and nudges her thigh with his nose.

When she looks down at him, he sits down and looks at her expectantly, whining quietly.

‘Do you need to go take a leak, boy?’ Beth asks and bends down to scratch his head.

‘You got that? And nothing of what I did?’ Karl asks, exasperated.

‘Well, that’s how he does it. And none of what you did resembled what you look like when you need to pee.’

Tom roars with laughter and Karl huffs.

 

***

'Richard!' Dom says with a lot of enthusiasm and flops down onto the couch next to him, almost knocking Richard's beer out of his hand in the process.

'Dom,' Richard says and gets his beer out of Dom's reach.

'Richard,' Dom repeats and wraps one arm around Richard's shoulder.

'Dom?' Richard tries.

'You really like him,' Dom says and follows Richard's line of sight. Orlando is leaning against the doorframe, absorbed in a conversation with Eric, one knee pulled up, foot resting against the frame. He is gesticulating with the hand that is holding his beer, the thumb of the other is hooked into his front pocket.

'I do,' Richard says after a moment.

Dom nods, all serious, his arm still wrapped around Richard's shoulder.

He smells as if he's drunk at least half of the alcohol the kitchen has to offer and his speech is slightly slurred.

'He is my best mate,' he says thoughtfully and stares at Orlando intently for a while. Then his head snaps around and he grins at Richard:

'And a massive dick.'

As if to prove his point, Orlando calls across the room:

'Would you please not scar Richard for life, Dom!'

Dom just flips him off.

Turning towards Richard he says with a smile:

'At the end of the day? Totally worth it, though.'

He briefly tightens his hold around Richard's shoulder, then let's go of him.

'Thanks,' Richard says.

Dom nods.

'Good talk, mate, but now I need to go take a piss.'

He salutes and pushes himself off the couch, almost toppling over when he steps onto his open shoelace.

***

 

'Dom!' Orlando hollers and bangs his fist against the bathroom door.

'Get the fuck out of there already!'

'Go away!' Dom hollers back.

'I'm not going to piss my pants because you're watching porn on your phone!'

Behind the door, Dom laughs.

'Seriously?' Orlando says exasperated.

'Don't make me come get you!'

Dom is silent for such a long moment that Orlando wonders if he has keeled over and fallen asleep, but then his voice comes from right behind the door:

'Can you even do that?'

'What?'

'Come get me?'

Orlando bangs his head against the door and closes his eyes.

'Why?'

'There's no key here.'

'Are you fucking kidding me?' Orlando groans. 

'Did you manage to get yourself locked in?'

'Maybe.'

'You are such a moron. How did you manage to lose the key after locking the door?'

Silence.

'That's a brilliant question.'

Dom sounds as if he could use a break from drinking.

'Are you going to kick in the door?'

'No, Dom, I'm going to chop it down with an axe.'

'Really?'

'The fuck, Dom?- Hey, Karl! KARL!'

'WHAT?' 

Karl pokes his head around the corner.

'Go get Tom. And whoever else is keen on extracting Dom from the bathroom.'

 

***

Orlando has just taken the first drag of his cigarette when the patio door behind him opens and closes.

'Hey,' Richard says quietly.

Orlando exhales.

'Need a break?'

Richard shakes his head and wraps his arms around himself to fend off the cold.

'I'm having a good time.'

'Despite all the craziness.'

Richard chuckles.

'Or because of it, maybe. But it's gotten late, and I need to work tomorrow.'

Orlando nods.

'Let's call a cab, then. I'm knackered, too.'

Richard raises his eyebrows.

'You sure? I can go on ahead if you want to stay.'

'Yes, Richard, I am sure, and no, I don't want to stay,' Orlando says, pronouncing every word very clearly.

Richard laughs.

'Okay.'

'Okay,' Orlando echoes and stubs out his cigarette.

'Let's go, then.'

Before he opens the patio door, he turns back towards Richard and the corner of his mouth twists up into a lopsided little smile:

'You can be on top, by the way.'

***

(written by noalinnea)

Richard’s alarm goes off in the middle of a sleep cycle and rings for half a dozen times before he even stirs. When he does, it’s because there is movement next to him and quite a lot of grumbling and then Orlando leans over him, depositing at least half of his weight on him while he tries to locate Richard’s mobile and get it to stop ringing.  
‘Fuck, Richard, where’s your fucking phone?’ Richard hears him swear before Orlando’s elbow hits him in the head. He groans and Orlando lets up, but only for a second.  
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, make it stop,’ he growls, and sounds exactly as tired and hung-over as Richard feels. Richard blindly pats the bed next to him, but his phone is not where he has left it, it seems to have slid between the bed and the wall, and Richard’s fingers don’t fit through the tiny crack there is.  
When he says so, Orlando sighs and flops back onto his back. Richard watches him rub his eyes, hears him huff in frustration, then watches him sit up, slide out of bed and onto the floor and disappear underneath the bed.  
There is more swearing, but then Orlando reappears and tosses the phone unceremoniously onto Richard’s chest.  
‘Turn it off,’ he just says and sits down on the edge of the bed. With a swipe of his thumb Richard does and the room plunges into silence, then back into almost complete darkness when the display turns itself off.  
‘What time is it?’ Orlando asks, his voice still hoarse after the shouting and singing of last night.  
‘Six,’ Richard replies, his voice not even nearly awake yet, either, and unsuccessfully tries to fight the urge to close his eyes again. ‘Sorry.’  
‘Fuck,’ Orlando groans and Richard feels the bed next to him dip when Orlando slides back under the covers next to him.  
‘Just wake me when you’re ready to go and I’ll drive you to your car, yeah? Tea’s in the kitchen, towels are in the bathroom.’  
Tea, Richard thinks. Towel. Kitchen. Right.  
‘I can call a cab,’ he says, and tries to open his eyes, tries to move, but his body is weirdly heavy and refuses to cooperate.  
‘No,’ Orlando says.  
Okay, Richard thinks. ‘Thanks,’ he says. ‘That’s---‘  
Just five more minutes- five- more--- minutes---

***

'I really like you, Mrs Otto,' says Kelly O'Riley with the simplicity and confidence that only second formers ever seem to posses.

Miranda looks up from her book to smile at the three girls, standing in front of her with their sock-clad feet shimmying on the parquet a little bit.

'Thank you, Kelly,' she replies and means it, but when the girls just remains standing there, tugging at their pony tails, Miranda adds, 'What brought this on?'

Natasha Miller lifts her shoulder, but her gaze drifts away from Miranda towards the window.

'You know, though,' Huzna Thomas says, 'Mr Rhys-Davies was a great head of house as well.'

'Undoubtedly he was,' Miranda agrees because even if she has no idea where this is going, this is just simply true.

All three girls nod, and Natasha is still looking at the window and the piano underneath it.

'You know what he did on Christmas?' Kelly asks, then answers her own question with a response that doesn't fully fit. 'Traditions are super important.'

'They can be, yes,' Miranda agrees. 'What did Mr Rhys Davies do on Christmas?'

Instead of answering right away, Huzna abandons Miranda on the sofa and slides (because that is what she does, her feet don't really leave the floor) over to the piano. She opens it and pushes down a key as if that is the answer.

Miranda laughs and closes her book, sits up.

'So, he made you all gather around the piano and sing songs?'

Kelly tugs at her hair.

'Well, he didn't make us do anything, right? And it wasn't just Christmas songs.'

Miranda gets up and walks over, pulling her hair into a pony tail. Kelly and Natasha follow.

'That sounds lovely,' she says and means it. 'But I don't know how to play the piano.'

Kelly looks at her in that pitying way that normally just teenagers between 14 and 16 have down perfectly. Huzna grins. Natasha sits down on the piano stool and plays "Für Elise", the fast-forward version.

***

It's Friday afternoon and Arnor House is unusually quiet, even for the holidays. The reason for that is one belated Christmas-Costume-Party that the Mirkwooders announced pretty much the moment that their head of house left for the airport.

Save for a handful of Arnorians who really have had enough of the whole Christmas shenanigans, Viggo and Eric are the only ones left in the house. In Viggo's living room, Viggo is slouched in his favourite arm chair, wearing the fetching combination of paint splattered jeans and Eric's bathrobe that isn't only a couple of sizes too big but also very red. Eric is dressed marginally more presentable but makes up for it by lying all but upside down on the couch, throwing little paper balls at the crooked Christmas tree on the table.

'You know,' Viggo says when the tree topples over and falls to the floor, 'I'd like a martini.'

Because he is upside down, Eric nearly chokes on his laughter.

'That we are inadvertantly playing Nick and Nora here should not be a reason for you to turn to drink at four in the afternoon.'

Viggo contemplates that for a moment, then pulls a face, then grins. Eric rights himself on the couch and sighs ostentatiously.

'You now want to watch "The Thin Man", right?'

Viggo's grin grows even broader.

'Tell you what,' he says, 'I dash out and buy supplies -'

'Martini and olives,' Eric exemplifies.

'Supplies at Tesco,' Viggo continues, unperturbed and gets to his feet. 'While you choose which movie you want to watch.'

Eric doesn't say 'Bullitt' mostly because he watched it yesterday.

'Baby Driver,' he decides instead.

Viggo dons Eric's robe in a rather dramatic fashion and stretches out his arms.

'So be it. I'll be back in twenty minutes.'

'You should put on a shirt,' Eric says, hanging his head upside down again. 'And do me a favour and put the tree back up?'

***

Considering it is the second to last day of 2017, Cate figures that it could have been worse. For some reason only known to the Gods or fate itself, the last week of any year usually decides that the previous 358 days have gone too well for her. Car accidents, mysteriously collapsing beds, one of the boys breaking their arm, that kind of stuff usually happens in the last week of the year.

So, when this year's "little incident" occurs, Cate just sits down right where she is standing and laughs.

'Not the reaction I was expecting,' says her husband, the bearer of bad news in form of a washing basket.

Cate is still too busy laughing and Andrew waits until she ruined a perfectly fine white shirt by wiping her eyes (and her mascara) with its sleeve.

'No, no, it's wonderful,' Cate says and her laughter catches her again when she peeks into the basket that Andrew just put at her feet.

Andrew pulls a face and gives the basket a little kick.

'I'm not sure how that happened,' he says, sounding neither particularly annoyed nor apologetic. 'Must've been one of the boys throwing his stuff in with it. Something new and red?'

Cate snorts and takes out the item on top of the pile in the basket. It happens to be a pair of Andrew's long johns that he bought after watching too many old westerns and loves like no one has any business of loving their underwear. However, right now he looks at it with something like despair that isn't made better by Cate's hickupping laughter.

'Oh, I don't know, dear heart,' Cate says, the fabric soft in her hands. 'I think that pink will suit you very, very well.'

***

At midnight (or thereabouts), there is a lot of 'farewell to 2017' and 'all the best for 2018' kissing (more or less sober, more or less sloppy) going around. No one actually does keep a record of who is the first person that they snogged in 2018, but if they did, the list would read as follows:

Beth got her first from Karl. He was, however, first licked square across the face by Boris, so technically, Karl's first kiss was Boris's.

Dom - a rather beautiful waitress that happened to stand next to him. He does not know her name. Her lipstick did taste of cherries, though.

Gerry - his mom. On the bloody cheek, for fuck's sake, you perverts.

West - redacted.

Orlando - Richard. 

Sean - Ashley's sister. Which was rather cheeky of him. And brought on by a dare from Ashley.

Bernard - Bernard.

Viggo - Bernard.

Kiele - Matt.

Eric - Also Bernard. (Bernard was on a mission that night, and after bagging Viggo who was a bit surprised by that much affection that late in the night, it was quite easy to do the same with Eric. He just had to wait for Eric to stop snorting champagne through his nose.)

***

Sean [8:17 a.m.]: Happy new year, mate!

Orlando [9:32 a.m.]: Ditto

Orlando [9:32 a.m.]: Everything all right over there?

Sean [8:33 a.m.]: Jeremy Needham set fire to your library and the west wing of your house burned down.

Orlando [9:33 a.m.]: Funny

Sean [8:33 a.m.]: Bernard got thrown out by Marianne and is crashing in your flat now.

Orlando [9:33 a.m.]: Tell him to water my cacti

Sean [8:34 a.m.]: How is Rome?

Orlando [9:34 a.m.]: Loud

Orlando [9:34 a.m.]: Busy

Orlando [9:34 a.m.]: Damp

Sean [8:34 a.m.]: Have you ever considered working for a travel agency?

Orlando [9:35 a.m.]: Have you ever considered working as a motivational speaker?

Sean [8:35 a.m.]: I hear they require you to wear something other than sweatpants, so no, I haven't.

Orlando [9:35 a.m.]: That sounds like you, yes

Sean [8:35 a.m.]: Cheers. I'm off to breakfast now. Give my regards to Richard.

Orlando [9:36 a.m.]: Will do

***

It is quite stormy outside when Viggo makes his way across school grounds to the garage. He does in fact spend half the journey fighting against the elements in general and a plastic bag in particular which repeatedly attacks him. Having successfully fought it off eventually, he is in a bit of a disarray when he lets himself in.

The picture that greets him there is one of nerve-soothing familiarity, however. Of Eric he only sees feet and lower legs as the rest of him is hidden under the Falcon which stands proud and shiny and at a safe distance of anyone under eighteen. Three little people fitting that description - t-shirts identifying them as Wellies (two, faces smeared to unrecognizability by engine grease) and a Mirkwooder (one, mostly clean but sinister-looking nonetheless). They ignore Viggo's arrival because they are too engrossed in their task which involves the engine block of Sean's motorbike.

Sean is, in fact, the only person who hasn't got even the littlest bit of oil or grease on him, indeed looks like he just dropped by in an outfit more suitable for a library than a garage. He is also the only one who notices Viggo. The fond smile on his face, proof that he has been keeping an eye on the kids, grows wider as a result, and after taking one look at Viggo's battleworn appearance (mostly his hair), he reaches for the huge thermos flask on the work bench behind himself.

'Cuppa tea, mate?' he asks.

***

Orlando returns from Rome quite early on January, 4th. However, his house is suspiciously quiet when he lets himself in. Even at half seven and even during the holidays there is usually someone walking around or lurking in the hallways. Especially the first and second formers are early risers, and Orlando should hear the patter of small be-socked feet on the wood floor.

Frowning heavily, he just drops his bag off in his flat and then goes back out. When he doesn't hear a peep even on the second floor, he gets his phone out to text Sean.

Orlando [7:41 a.m.]: What have you done to my kids?

Orlando [7:41 a.m.]: If you killed them, I hope you buried their bodies deep enough

Orlando [7:41 a.m.]: You know how Gerry feels about the upcoming zombie / vampire apocalypse

In Wellesley Hall, Sean is having a very self indulgent early-morning bubble bath and nearly falls out of the tub when he tries to get to his phone, strategically placed out of the splashing area on the loo.

Sean [7:43 a.m.]: Funny that you should mention Gerry.

Sean [7:43 a.m.]: Because my guess is that your missing kids are with him.

Sean [7:43 a.m.]: He is doing an early Valentines Cards workshop in the common room of the main house.

Messages sent, Sean turns the water back on with his left foot but doesn't put the phone down. Predictably it is in a matter of seconds that Orlando's reply comes.

Orlando [7:44 a.m.]: Very funny

Orlando [7:44 a.m.]: I'm going to bed

Sean's laughter echoes in his bathroom. He drops the phone onto his fluffy bath mat and instead picks up his book again. He is very resolved to make sure all of his Wellies participating in Gerry's very real workshop right now will send Orlando a card next month.

***

***

Here are six things that could've happened at Gerry's Ringing-in-the-new-year-get-together:

1 - Sean could have met Richard. Chances are that Sean would've passed up several good opportunities to embarrass Orlando just for the fun of it because there is something to be said about well-read, polite people even if they don't support the Blades. No need to pester the Football ignorants, at least not during the first meeting. As it is, Sean spends the better part of the afternoon pestering Orlando, whom he has met decades ago and who thus is an absolutely electable target, about restaurants he and Cate frequented in Rome that Orlando claims he hasn't been to during his brief holiday.

2 - Orlando could've made retching noises at Craig's recollection of this year's 'Star Singer' shenanigans. He could've listened to Craig's very eloquent explanation how his German Club's endeavour to introduce the tradition of the three wise men going from door to door to sing German Christmas carols on January, 6th will absolutely spread from JC to the rest of Yorkshire. As it is, Orlando's face turns from generally disapproving to outright thunderous when in the early afternoon, he opens the door to his flat and finds three kids from Craig's German Club plus Craig. Their question of 'May the star come in?' is surprisingly answered with a two minute lecture on the idiocy of the Virgin birth.

3 - Craig could have collected his bribe from Dom which was due the moment the first wise man knocked on Mirkwood's door. Dom could've spent the money on some quality weed and accidentally locked himself in a bathroom again when attempting to smoke it in peace. As it is, the only bathroom Dom frequents on this Saturday is his own, where he reads an ancient Donald Duck Comic book while in his living room, Bernard does his best to ignore the official forms they have to fill out for their joint class trip.

4 - Bernard could have gotten into an argument with, well, anyone really on his favourite party topic of "why it is better to get completely drunk on wine than on beer". As it is, he spends the evening in the presence of Gina, Paul and Cate and all of them agree that wine is absolutely the way to go anyway.

5 - Cate could have given pointers on the phone to Miranda and Viggo when it comes to French conversational phrases. Miranda and Viggo, subsequently, could've spend their evening conversing entirely in French which comes in very handy when you want to express your slight concern that the best mate of your host is possibly a pyromaniac and said best mate is within hearing distance and holding a firelighter. As it is, the only firelighters Miranda and Viggo come across are the ones in Viggo's cigarette pack in his shirt pocket and the one Miranda uses to put on the candles on her living room table right before serving cake for herself and herself, Viggo, and Eric.

6 - Eric could have spent the evening sitting on Gerry's couch and wondering why Pony Soprano has received a surprising amount of fan mail over the last two days. As it is, he does actually ponder that question, but it is not on Gerry's couch but when standing next to Gerry in front of Pony Soprano's box in the afternoon, staring at several postcards stuck to the wood.

The reason why none of these things happen is very simple. 

Gerry's big ringing-in-the-new-year get-together doesn't take place in the first place. Instead he and West sit, just like West suggested two days ago, on West's balcony, and West listens to Gerry's two-hour play-by-play of his Christmas holidays, smiling an unheard of amount of times (thrice). In turn, Gerry whoops with laughter - and thus inadvertantly invites West's curious neighbour Idris to join the party - when West demonstrates how the forest-scented air freshener that Gerry gave him as a belated Christmas present can be turned into a blow torch.

***

The last Sunday before the end of winter break traditionally has one hour in the afternoon reserved for quickie-spring-cleaning in both Palm House and Austen House. Both Kiele and Emma clearly remember how and where that originated - during one equally boring and long staff meeting in '08 that they both separately used to clean up their desks - but if a disgruntled kid happens to ask why oh why he or she has to spend one precious hour of their precious last day off cleaning? Both Kiele and Emma give the same answer: It is a sacred tradition going back to the foundations years of JC.

At the beginning of said our each kid is handed a plastic bag which he or she is supposed to fill as best as he can. Only once (2014) it was used by one kid (Trevor Lanningham) to try and kill another person (Yussef Taye) because said person used their own bag to trash Trevor's collection of singular socks (mostly washed). Otherwise the kids actually use it for its intended purpose.

At the end of that hour, there is a procession to the school's dumpsters that rivals Easter processions during which all bags including their contents are disposed of. It's only most of the content because each kid is encouraged to keep one item (odourless) to exhibit in their house's main common room for a week. Just for amusement's sake.

This year's collection put on display in The Swamp includes a metal man made of (stolen) cafeteria spoons, a stuffed bear with fatal war injuries (the head is missing) and a crossword puzzle book that has penis drawings on every single page.

***

After a minute or so, Sean very deliberately clears his throat. But apparently, there are just some activities that take you to such a... let's call it far-away-land to be on the safe side, that your teacher's subtle announcements of their presence don't really register with you.

Sean tries again, louder this time. The response is - somewhat disturbingly - a little moan.

Sean sighs, rolls his eyes and considers dropping his books to make his presence known. They are heavy books and the stone floor of the foyer will provide a good enough surface for a loud bang which will echo from the high ceilings. That'll get him a reaction. On the other hand, he'd have to pick them up and his knee is bothering this morning.

Nah.

'Guys, I reckon that's enough,' he says instead.

The reaction is instantaneous. Vince Pryce and Sonia Maddigan fly apart like even the thought of touching the other - let alone shoving their tongues down each others throats in a public area - couldn't be further from their minds. 

'Err,' says Sonia.

'Hi Mr Bean,' says Vince in a tone of voice that Sean last heard from him three years ago, before he hit puberty. The pipsqueak sound is rather funny, coming from a 6'3'' rugby player.

'Now that you checked them out so thoroughly,' Sean says because, let's face it, he is a bit of a bastard, especially on days where Dom got the last muffin in the cafeteria and he had to suffer through another verbal knife fight between Orlando and Viggo over lunch, 'I take it that both your sets of tonsils are well?'

'Err,' says Sonia and blushes.

'Hi Mr Bean,' says Vince. 

Sonia kicks his foot, thus getting the broken record to work again.

'Sorry, Mr Bean,' says Vince. 'Won't happen again.'

Sonia throws him a glance that can only be described as shocked, but she swallows down the indignant question of 'What do you mean "it won't happen again"?' for another, more private moment.

Sean, who doesn't believe anything a hysterical teenager tells him, nods.

'Sure.'

***

Unbeknownst to each other, Sean and Eric think exactly the same thing as they push through a conglomeration of kids of various ages in front of the staff room's door: Viggo is amazing.

It's Tuesday, the weekend is far, far away, and it's not even noon yet and still they already had to put out as many fires as if someone handed West a canister of petrol and a year's worth of matches. Two kids fell down the outer stairwell because of ice, one kid ran into a glass door because of stupidity, half of Sean's second form didn't have any homework with them, two thirds of Eric's third form spent the entire maths lesson getting 0% of his explanations of percentage, Christopher held a speech about hygiene and toilet paper use that took up Sean's entire first break, Eric has two stacks of new, not very promising tests in his bag, Peter Cartwell stuck gum in Jennifer Mores's hair and Sean couldn't pretend he didn't see, Jona Carsington had a nervous breakdown during calculus - 

and the list goes on.

Undoubtedly, Viggo's plate is as full, if not fuller. Sean and Eric both know that.

And yet? He stands there, hip leaned against the window sill, ratty leather bag clutched under his arm, in midst the absolute chaos and noise that is the teachers' floor during second break, and he is talking to Rashida Oona, she-of-the-serious-face. Neither Sean nor Eric know what the conversation is about, but they have been teachers long enough to be able to tell that she will neither fling herself out of the window nor pull out a knife in the next five minutes. And the stress level being what it is, both of them would probably just walk past; give her a distracted smile maybe before moving on. 

Viggo, though? His focus is complete, so strong that it seems to create a bubble of quiet and and attentiveness around them. Whatever it is, I am listening, I am here for you, what can I do?

It's not Eric nor Sean who comment on it, though. At least not this Tuesday morning. Sean's attention gets commandeered by three boys from his tutor group, handing in much-belated bus fares for an excursion, and Eric gets waylayed by a teacher in training with a whole box of dice which she instantly drops in front of him, dozens of dice rolling everywhere.

Eventually, Sean finally, finally holds a cup of tea in his hands; an improvement, even if he spilled some of it on his tie, and Eric contemplates making paper hats out of his coursework. Viggo is sitting in his usual chair, his stare blank and directed at the ceiling, when Orlando appears next to him. Doing what he does best, which is looming, and for which he is dressed accordingly in all black clothes. Both Eric's and Sean's gazes automatically turn that way, both vaguely think the same.

'Hey, Vig?' Orlando says when Viggo, after half a second, still doesn't seem to have noticed him.

Viggo's eyes refocus, and he glances up at him.

'Yeah?'

'I heard you talked to Rashida,' Orlando says. 'About that thing.'

Neither Sean nor Eric know what 'that thing' could possibly be (nor are they surprised that Orlando does since the girl is in his house), but Viggo acknowledges Orlando's assumption by inclining his head.

'Yeah.'

Orlando nods.

'Cheers for that. Appreciate it.'

Viggo blinks.

'Sure thing.'

Orlando nods again, then turns to walk away. In passing, his gaze falls on Sean's somewhat tea-soaked tie. He rolls his eyes, a half-smirk on his lips now.

'You look a mess.'

***

'Can I talk to you for a moment, Mr Butler?'

Gerry looks up from his desaster zone of a lab table to find that all of his second formers have disappeared (naturally, it's break time), and only one girl still there. Olivia Bloom (no relation, and Christ, isn't that a thought to give you restless nights, the idea of Orlando producing offspring of any kind. Gerry wonders about how he would go about it - which is a legitimate interest for a biology teacher, okay - and excluding the hypothesis that he is a vampire (which Gerry doesn't, but let's just pretend) Gerry's money is on a similar scenario like the one in Greek mythology where Zeus gave birth to Athena by having Hephaestus split his head open with an axe. Anyway.) So Olivia Bloom stands there and looks fretful and a bit impatient. Gerry guesses that the latter has been caused by his delay in response and instantly sets to rectify that.

'Of course you can,' he says, counterbalancing her frown with a broad smile. 'What do you want?'

Instead of coming out with it, Olivia does this little shift from one foot to the other which either means she needs the loo or she is embarrassed by something. Actually, speaking of coming out, Gerry rather hopes that it is not about that. Coming out. He has had three people coming out to him this year already which is braw and all that but surely there must be other people these kids can talk to. Someone like a proper adult or something.

Granted, only one of these cases actually had something to do with sexual orientation. Unlike Molly Rogers, Rebecca Thomas didn't want to tell him that she liked girls but wanted to confess that it was actually she who (accidentally) let the five white mice out of their cage before Christmas, only four of whom Gerry has been able to locate so far. And in case of Jeremy Needham, 'coming out of the closet' had to be taken literally. The wee pest likes to crawl into every narrow space he can find and Gerry had to practically drag his giggling self out of the lab's broom closet.

'Mr Butler?'

Gerry abruptly gets yanked back from his latest mental detour to find Olivia still shifting and now gnawing on her bottom lip.

'Yes, sorry,' he says and smiles, 'What can I do for you?'

Olivia takes a deep breath and her round cheeks turn red.

'The thing is uh I gotta tell you something.'

Coming out No four, here we come, Gerry thinks.

'Course, go ahead,' he says.

'Thing is, Mr Butler,' Olivia replies and then it comes out of her like when you get the runs after questionable deli. No, actually, scratch that, that image is disgusting. Like a mighty waterfall. Of words, not of poo. ANYWAY.

'Thing is, Mr Butler, I'm not sure if I'm supposed to tell you this and uh it's not really my - uh - but yeah uh. I think Mr West, he is uh I think he is no, I saw that he is, no, I'm pretty sure he is cheating on you.'

Relieved of her burden of words, Olivia looks at Gerry. Gerry stares back.

'Uh,' he then says. 'What?'

Possibly mistaking Gerry's confusion for epic heartbreak, Olivia's face adopts a suitably mournful expression.

'I'm really sorry, and err yeah. But I saw him, last weekend when me and my parents, we went to a restaurant and he was there as well and and he was err, sorry Mr Butler, he was kissing err someone else. Uh a woman.'

There are possibly a lot of responses that anyone qualifying for the 'proper adult' position here would do now. Perhaps starting with telling Olivia that he and West aren't a couple and that he, Gerry, isn't even gay. Nor is West. Or so Gerry assumes, going by the two (very female) ex-wives and several children he has with them. He might be bi, though. Very probably the responsible adult wouldn't show more interest in their mate's hypothetical bisexuality than a second former's distress.

No one - especially not Gerry - ever said that Gerry was a proper adult. So he arches his brows and doesn't even try to hide his curiosity.

'Really?' he asks. 'What did she look like? Was she blonde? I bet she was, huh?'

***

[11/1/2018 Whatsapp]

Orlando [6:23 p.m.]: Hiya Richard

Orlando [6:23 p.m.]: I tried calling earlier but it went straight to voicemail, so I presume you're either working or cruising the no-reception-Dales

Orlando [6:23 p.m.]: My money is on work?

Orlando [6:24 p.m.]: Anyway, I was calling cause I just finished an essay on the stabilizing influence of social rituals and I wanted to chat

Orlando [6:24 p.m.]: The reason why I'm writing now, though, is that it has just been pointed out to me that I am expected to buy drinks at the pub on Saturday

Orlando [6:24 p.m.]: Can't remember whether you're in Leeds this weekend, but if you want to drop by, you're welcome to

Orlando [6:24 p.m.]: No worries if you're busy

Orlando [6:26 p.m.]: The reason for the free drinks is that it's my birthday btw

***

Of course there a strict rules prohibiting the use off mobile phones during class in Jackson College. The teacher who is enforcing them the hardest is Bernard. That may come as a surprise, considering that it is the same Bernard who allows his pupils to exit his (ground floor) classroom through the window in summer.

Contrary to popular belief this has nothing to do with Bernard possibly being old enough to be born in the 19th century and hence having a natural hatred against anything being invented after 1980. Bernard did in fact say something rather similar once, but that was when he and Gina were bemourning the fact that 80s fashion was about to make a comeback (yet again) and Bernard thought that massive shoulder pads should never be resurrected ever.

No, the reason for Bernard's stict No-Phones-Rule is of an entirely different nature. In the day and age of smartphones, the ancient art of writing little notes has completely died out. Kids don't embarrass themselves any longer by trying to sneakily pass on bits of crumpled paper with important information that cannot possibly wait till the next break. They just pocket-text each other. And that is just sad. For culture and tradition in general, yes, but for Bernard in particular.

Because after all those years as a teacher he is incredibly good at noticing when a pupil is acting extra-innocent and one silently outstretched hand usually has him holding the secret note without him even having to interrupt his monologue about Shakespeare.

Does Bernard read those messages? Of course he does. How else is one supposed to be up to date with who dates whom, who is afraid of which teacher, and what the sixth formers are up to in the bikeshed during the next lunch break?

Bernard even has a little box where he stores them in his study. Marianne calls it his 007 stash.

***

Orlando walks past the lawn in front of Arnor House four times on Saturday- once on his way to the main house to get breakfast, once on his way back, the third time when he walks over to Wellesley, the fourth on his way back to his house. The last three times, he does so with increasing bafflement, expressed first with narrowed brows, then with a shake of his head.

It is January (the 13th, his birthday, actually), and the weather is accordingly. Which makes the display of hippy dippy craziness on Arnor's lawn even more demented. 

When he is on his way back from a quite nice late breakfast of waffles, Orlando spots Viggo lying on the grass. Dressed in a ridiculously puffy red jacket, he looks like a miniature bouncy castle.

When Orlando is on his way to Wellesley because Sean called him to come over and bloody well fetch his birthday present, otherwise he would give it to his kids, of course several children from the flower power collective that Viggo calls his house have joined him on the lawn. For of them - different sizes and differently coloured jackets - lie with their heads next to their head of house, forming something like a crooked flower shape when looked at from above. Two smaller ones roll around on the grass like puppies on speed with no care at all that someone will have to wash the grass stains out of their clothes later.

When Orlando walks by for the fourth time (a half-eaten cake and with a copy of two train tickets, destination blackened out with Sharpie for the sake of the surprise later), Eric has joined the weirdness (of course he has). He dragged a flip-chair out, though, and even though it is only three in the afternoon, Orlando is very sure that the nondescript bottle he is cradling to his chest holds alcohol of some sort. He spots Orlando, which is much easier for him than for the other Arnorians because unlike them he isn't littering the ground like fallen soldiers after a useless battle, and he waves at him.

'Hey, mate, come over!'

Orlando looks at the plate with chocolate cake he is holding and briefly contemplates pulling the cling film off, so he has something to smash into Eric's face. He doesn't, for two reasons - the cake is quite delicious and there are kids present. He rolls his eyes and walks over.

'That looks like the prelude to a massive outbreak of cystitis,' he says when he halts on the gravel path, the tips of his shoes just touching the grass.

Without raising his head from the ground, Viggo makes a dismissive gesture. Eric's grin doesn't leave his face, though.

'Hey, guys,' he says to the scattered fallen soldiers. 'Did you know it was Mr Bloom's birthday today?'

Orlando's frown deepens. Five Arnorians turn their heads on the grass. Eric grins.

'Now, don't be rude, guys,' Viggo says, still not sitting up.

'What do we do when it's someone's birthday?' Eric asks.

Which is how Orlando has to suffer through an equally cheery and off-key rendition of 'Happy birthday' from five idiot kids from Arnor while Eric nearly falls out of his stupid flip chair.

'Thank you,' Orlando says gravely because he wasn't raised by fucking wolves. Though when the kids have flopped down again and it's only Eric looking at him, he mouths 'I am going to kill you later' before he takes his cake and his train tickets back to Mirkwood.

***

It's early in the afternoon when it knocks on Sean's door. He opens and finds Viggo standing there.

'Hello, friend,' he says and gives Sean a toothy smile. 'Can I seek refuge at Wellesley?'

Viggo interrupted Sean in the middle of a grading marathon, so he just nods and does not ask about the strange phrasing. Considering who is talking, he thinks it is more than possible that there is a house-wide game of hide and seek going on at Arnor and that their head of house is cheating (as he is prone to do) by coming here.

'Sure, mate,' Sean just says instead and waves Viggo to enter before he returns to his coursework.

Viggo happily follows the invitation, flops down on the couch and when Sean crosses the living room half an hour later in order to get himself a refill of tea, he finds Viggo still there, peacefully doodling on one of Sean's many notepads. Considerate host that he is, he heats double the amount of water that would fit in his mug, and on his way back to his study, he points out that there is some hot water left, should Viggo want a beverage himself. Viggo just hums, apparently completely immersed in the world he is sketching with one blue biro.

Around five, there is another knock. 

'Oh, hello Viggo,' says Cate, only a little bit surprised, when he opens the door instead of Sean. 

'Hello yourself,' Viggo replies and his smile grows broader when he spots the bottle of wine in Cate's hand. 'By all means, do come in. - Say, is that Spanish wine?'

When around half five, Sean deems his work for this day done and enters the living room again, he finds his amount of surprise visitors has doubled and there is an almost empty bottle of wine on the coffee table.

'Hey, Sean!' Viggo says cheerily.

Cate raises a glass to her lips as she looks Sean up and down, and she licks traces of wine from them before she speaks.

'Is there a reason why, at 5:28 in the afternoon, you are wearing nothing but pyjama bottoms and a bathrobe?'

Viggo's eyes widen as if he is seeing that for the first time. Sean shakes his head in slight irritation - he is grading papers on a Sunday, for Christ's sake, he can dress any way he wants to - and instead of answering he asks, 'Did you leave any of that stuff for me?' while gesturing at the wine.

***

It's 6:16 p.m. on Monday, January 15th that Eric enters his flat. He is a bit late; when planning today, he had envisioned himself to be grading for twenty six minutes already. He finds Viggo on his bed, Viggo who should be going through project folders right about now but is lying on his stomach there with a chewed-on biro, sketching things.

'Hey you,' he says without looking up from his elaborate rendition of the Eiffel tower, upside down.

'Hey,' Eric replies and drops his bag on the floor next to the bedroom door. He looks at Viggo for a moment, head tilted, thinking, and then adds,

'Hey, do you have five minutes?'

'Sure,' Viggo says instantly, though without looking up or turning.

'No,' Eric says, 'I mean, really.'

This time Viggo does look up, and Eric doesn't think he looks particularly funny, standing there, but Viggo chuckles anyway. He drops the sketchpad and then, with a swiping motion of his arm, pushes it away. It lands on the floor while Viggo's head rests on the pillow the pad previously occupied.

'Sure,' he says again, focused.

Eric doesn't bother toeing off his trainers - it's his bed after all -, he just flops down on the duvet next to Viggo. Viggo chuckles again when Eric scuttles over, turns onto his side. He holds still, doesn't ask when Eric stops shifting closer (because there is no such thing as closer) and cradles Viggo's head in both his hands, brings their foreheads together, the tips of their noses.

Eric has big hands and thinks that an advantage for playing cricket. Placed like they are now, he feels the curve of Viggo's ears against both his palms and his fingers touch at the back of his head. Viggo's hair is under and between them, and Eric knows that colour is nothing tangible, but fine and soft still translates to grayish blond in his mind. Viggo's skull is small, is delicate like this, and as always it does something to Eric's heart. 

He closes his eyes and nudges Viggo's nose with his own. Viggo holds still, but Eric can hear the quietest of laughs in his next exhale, and he can hear Viggo's eyelids flutter once, twice, until they stop and Viggo, too, has closed his eyes. 

157 seconds later, Viggo moves the littlest bit, again the tips of their noses rub against each other. There's this one curious thought in Eric's head, that he knows the exact shape of Viggo's nose. If he went on one of those game shows where you can show off your odd special skills, Eric's would be that he could point out Viggo's nose from 1000 different noses, just from tracing its shape with his fingers.

He chuckles at the thought, and the ball of his thumb against Viggo's cheek feels Viggo's smile.

Their foreheads touch, but barely so, and Eric reckons he can feel the skin, but not the bone directly underneath, he doesn't wonder what Viggo is thinking because there is this calmness, this quietness with them.

Viggo's inner clock isn't as finely tuned as Eric's is - or maybe it just works a little different from the rest; it's at 261 seconds that Eric hears his eyes blink open, feels Viggo's index finger poking his stomach in a wordless question.

'Five minutes is three hundred seconds,' Eric says, and Viggo lets out a small snort but waits for another half minute.

When Eric pulls back - enough to open his eyes and be able to look at Viggo without crossing them -, Viggo smiles. Eric's right hand leaves his skull and slides down, just resting in the curve where his head meets his shoulder, where he can feel the strong pulsing of the vein in Viggo's neck.

Viggo doesn't ask, but Eric still answers.

'I was doing rough estimations and simple multiplication with my second form this afternoon,' he says. 'Guess how many seconds a year has.'

'One hundred thousand,' Viggo says instantly.

Eric snorts. Viggo pokes his stomach.

'Thirty-one million five hundred thirty-six thousand.'

Viggo's eyes widen. Eric takes his hand from his neck to lightly flick his chin.

'Bit more.'

Viggo laughs and shrugs lightly.

'Yes, a bit more.'

His finger has found the space between the buttons of Eric's shirt. He crooks it a little, like a fish hook holding Eric in place.

'So?' Viggo asks.

Eric lifts the shoulder that is currently not resting on Viggo's biro.

'I thought "Thirty-one million five hundred thirty-six thousand? I could use three hundred of them to lie on my bed and feel the tip of your nose against mine".'

Viggo's responding smile looks the way his skull feels in Eric's hands.

'You thought that, yeah?'

Eric nods, pillow soft against his cheek.

'Yep.'

Viggo's finger lightly pushes against Eric's belly, rests there.

'Smart guy you are.'

***

On January, 16th 2018,...

...16 kids finish their rugby practice with Mr Urban with new bruises.

...15 kids are too late for cupcakes in the cafeteria because they happen to have the misfortune of arriving after Mr Bean and Mr Sinclair.

...13 is still Mr Bana's favourite number.

...14 kids fail to be able to count properly, much to Mr Mortensen's amusement during cricket practice.

...12 teachers notice that Mr Lee has a little piece of toilet paper stuck to his cheek from a shaving accident in the morning but don't point it out to him out of sheer fright of attracting his attention.

...11 girls of Mr Bean's all-girls football team bring home a glorious 6:0 win from an away match.

...10 carrots from the cafeteria go missing.

...9 messages are exchanged between Mr Bloom and 'that hot radio mod he is dating' (Kay Robinson, 5th form) / 'no, you fuckhead, they broke up, like ten years ago, he's dating some doctor now' (Philippa Red, 5th form) / 'what, Mr Bloom is gay?!' (Thomas Mitchel, lower sixth) / 'why do you automatically assume that the doctor is a bloke, you sexist dick?' (Steven Rayborn, lower sixth) / 'he isn't? I mean, she?' (Thomas again) / 'No, he's a bloke' (Steven)

...8 more people owe Mrs Blanchett money thanks to a very lucrative bet involving Mr Monaghan, ducks, and Mr McKellen's office.

...7 carrots find their way into Al Capony's bucket. 

...6 dramatic breakups between miniature Romeos and Juliets happen over the course of the day. (More than six tears are spilled in the follow-up.)

...5 new chairs arrive in the teachers' lounge and no one has an idea what to do with them.

...4 different illegal activities take place in / behind / and in one case on the notorious bikeshed.

...3 times poor Palmers have to witness Mr Passmore tell his wife, head of house Mrs Sanchez, that he loves her. Like, eew.

...2 carrots find their way into Pony Soprano's bucket.

...1 carrot gets eaten on the way by the carrot thief who felt a wee bit peckish.

***

Orlando can admit when he gets something wrong. And fuck, did he ever, in this case. He stares down at Jay, massaging the bridge of his nose with two fingers to avoid a spontaneous headache. Next to him, Sean laughs.

'What?' says Jay with the biggest of grins on his face. He doesn't even sound out of breath. 'It's not improper or anything, Mr Bean.'

Orlando loses his fight against the headache. Meanwhile Mikael stops flailing and falls suspiciously still. Orlando sighs and points at him, head wedged between Jay's thighs, Jay's knees almost connecting behind his head.

'When you were told to find an outlay for your apparent sexual frustration -' Sean says. Jay's grin grows even broader while Mikael twitches. Possibly from embarrassment. Or from arousal. Or lack of oxygen.

'And when Mr Bloom suggested you should take up another sport, like Jiu Jitsu -' Sean continues and makes a vague gesture at the two boys on Mirkwood's hardwood floor at their feet, 'I doubt he envisioned this. Or did you?'

Orlando has no patience for Sean's amusement.

'For f-,' he starts, catches himself just before the curse slips out. 'Jay, stop choking Mikael at once!'

His voice holds enough force for Jay's legs to instantly release their hold around his boyfriend's neck and head. Mikael, whose face up until then had been pressed against Jay's crotch - but not in an improper manner or anything. Yeah, right - , Mikael slides to the ground. Breathing but not moving.

Sean hickups a laugh. Orlando narrows his eyes. Jay sits up and ruffles Mikael's hair in a gesture that is surprisingly affectionate, especially considering what he just did.

'Is he unconscious?' Orlando asks, his voice icy, his eyes very much avoiding Sean.

Jay attempts to look sheepish and maybe that would even work if he hadn't done the same thing to three of his rugby mates over the course of the last week as well. He pushes his thigh under Mikael's head, pillowing it.

'Well, not for long.'

***

Eating one's tea in JC's cafeteria instead of one's own house has some downsides, for teachers and pupils alike. One may be the cook's need to test out new recipes which will possibly (once again) earn him the wrath of Wellesley's head of house and which may end in a case of housewide minor foodpoisoning. But it has several upsides as well, one of them definitely being dessert.

However, each head of house also has their own reasons why sometimes they do prefer to eat in the privacy of their own flat.

There is the head of house who enjoys the cafeteria's food (as long as it's not weird and foreign), but who is also very happy with a sarnie on the couch, especially since that means there is no need to change clothes. Or put them on. No one judges you in the privacy of your own home when you're having tea in your underpants.

There is the head of house who enjoys the cafeteria's food (especially if it is weird and foreign and possibly consists of snails), but who actually prefers to cook for themselves on some days. Even if in the end the take out menu from the fridge needs to be consulted again because the food burned on the stove. Never a good idea to turn on cricket while in the middle of making eggs.

There is the head of house who enjoys conversations over tea in the cafeteria but sometimes just wants to be alone with a simple meal, a good book and a glass of wine.

There is the head of house who enjoys conversations over tea in the cafeteria but sometimes just wants to be alone with a simple meal, a book, and a biro to write angry annotations until the stupid fucking book gets thrown across the room and reading is thus abandoned in favour of checking out how Manchester played today.

There is the head of house who enjoys getting the cook to part with his secret recipes but sometimes just wants their significant other to grill a nice and juicy steak and click bottles of beer over the table before hearing work stories that have nothing to do with school but are equally ridiculous.

There is the head of house who enjoys watching first formers play with food until other heads of house throw them dagger-like glares, but who is very happy to leave JC for a while and spend the evening in the company of someone interesting they met on the internet in a venue where there are no peas being used as missiles.

***

Curiously, the third Friday in January, not a single teacher from JC sets foot into the Pony. That is even more curious since three staffers actually set out to do just that:

-1-

Around half five, West opens his door after Gerry has leaned on the bell for half a minute and used his mobile to call the landline for good measure. When the door finally swings open, Gerry ignores both West's disgruntled expression and his attire to give him a winning smile.

'I knew you were home, mate! How about a pint at the pub, eh?'

West's expression changes dramatically, mostly due to the eyebrow that is being arched. He looks down at his hands and the test tubes they are holding.

'I am in the middle of something,' he says.

Gerry's beam grows wider and his eagerness could be compared to that of a 6' 2'' puppy.

'Belter!' he says and lets himself into West's flat. 'I'll get the fire extinguisher!'

-2-

At 6:04 p.m. Karl takes the stairs to Beth's flat, two at a time, because it's quicker that way (duh) and because it gets his pulse up. And he needs all the advantage he can get against Beth, really. Quick run in the woods and then down to the Pony, that's the plan for the evening.

Beth opens her door, and Karl kind of instantly forgets about both, the running and the pub. Beth is fresh out of the shower. Her hair is wrapped in a white towel, also -

'You're naked,' Karl says, mostly to Beth's boobs.

'Yes,' Beth says.

Karl drags his eyes up to her face.

'You answer the door naked?'

Beth pulls the towel from her hair and uses the momentum to hit Karl in the chest with it.

'Saw you from the window,' she says and turns around to walk back into her flat.

Somewhat unsurprisingly, Karl follows.

-3-

After tea in the cafeteria and when 'Emmerdale' is over, Sean climbs over a couple of Wellies wrestling on the carpet in Wellesley's foyer and makes his way over to Mirkwood.

Orlando opens his door without taking his eyes out of his book.

'What?' he says instead of a hello.

'Pint?' Sean asks.

'No,' Orlando replies and is about to close the door again.

Sean tilts his head, glancing at the cover of the book.

'Baehr and Richter?'

Orlando looks up.

'Read it?'

Sean snorts, takes the book from Orlando's hands and flicks it back to the first page. Handing it back, he points at the ex libris stamp, bearing his name. Orlando glances down at it, then back at Sean. He takes a step back into his flat, inclining his head in invitation.

'Brew?'

***

'Hey, can you drop in at my house a couple of times tonight?' Sean asks over lunch.

Viggo nods distractedly.

'Sure, mate,' he says, dunking his spoon into his bowl of soup. 'You're meeting Ashley?'

'Nope,' Sean says and when he doesn't offer the alternative, it is only because it is funny to see the curiosity on Viggo's face, with a spoon of cheese soup between his lips.

'John is doing a show in Harrowgate.'

Viggo once accidentally witnessed one of John Tams's concerts, when he and Bernard decided to get drunk in a pub that wasn't the Pony. John is an old friend of Sean's, Viggo knew that much, and his folk music is great, and Viggo wouldn't have minded to hear more of it. It's Sean and their other mates who made the show... well, let's just say Bernard had several laughing fits and snorted beer through his nose twice. Because Sean is a man of many talents and Viggo is sure that his mates - Viggo isn't sure about the names, but recalls one being a very tall Irishman and a ginger haired man with a book - are as well. But singing is not one of them. Give them enough beer and a bit of nostalgia, and nothing will stop them.

'O'er the hills with you then,' Viggo says.

The volume of Sean's laughter makes a first former at the next table nearly face-plant into his soup.

***

[21/1/18, 10:55 a.m.]

“Hi, this is Karl's phone. Leave a message, mate."

'Good morning, Karl. Sean here. I was wondering - you're not in Harrowgate by any chance, eh? Or was that today that you wanted to go climbing? Anyway, the reason why I'm asking is - could you get my motorbike back to JC by any chance? I'm currently in [the phone is being turned away] - we're in Leeds, right? [laughter from the background and someone answers something indistinguishable, Sean laughs as well] yes, well, John, I wasn't the one booking the room, so how should I know? [The phone is moved again, and Sean speaks into it again] Yes, anyway, I ended up in Leeds and my motorbike is still parked in front of the "Coach and Horses" and I dunno what kind of loitering youth [laughter from the back] hangs out there over the day, but I'd much rather know it to be back home than there. And err, considering the amount of whiskey I had [someone speaking in the background] yeah, I know, John - so, considering we only stopped drinking about five hours ago... Err, aye, so be a mate, yeah?'

[21/1/18, Whatsapp]

Karl [10:58 a.m.]: HOW?

Karl [10:58 a.m.]: I DON'T HAVE YOUR KEYS

Karl [10:58 a.m.]: IDIOT

[21/1/18, 12:03 p.m.]

“Hi, this is Orlando Bloom. I can't take your call right now, but you can leave a message after the tone, and I will get back to you as soon as I can. If it's urgent, contact Jackson College under 01904 667700. If it's life or death, you might consider calling the police or the fire brigade instead.”

'Hiya, Lando. Sean here. You have the spare keys for my BMW, right? Be a mate and give Karl a ring for me, aye? He'll tell you why.'

[21/1/18, Whatsapp]

Orlando [12:11 p.m.]: Seriousy??

Orlando [12:11 p.m.]: Piss artist

Orlando [1:51 p.m.]: Your stupid bike is back at JC. You realize I had to drive that way twice, yeah? Once to get the fucking keys to Karl, once to drive Karl back 

Orlando [1:51 p.m.]: You need a lift home as well?

Sean [1:58 p.m.]: No, cheers; Jason will drop me off later.

Orlando [1:59 p.m.]: Three questions:

Orlando [1:59 p.m.]: 1 - How many people ended up staying in that hotel room?

Orlando [1:59 p.m.]: 2 - If Jason is fit to drive, aren't you as well?

Orlando [2:00 p.m.]: 3 - If so, why didn't he just drop you off in Harrowgate instead of JC?

Sean [2:01 p.m.]: Oops.

Orlando [2:01 p.m.]: Just fyi: When you get back to JC? I will kill you.

***

(written by noalinnea)

Out of JC’s six heads of house, only three wake up in their own beds on Sunday morning.  
Head of house #1 has a friend over for dinner- there is dessert, too- and when they realize that they have finished one and a half bottles of wine between them, it’s way past midnight and it really seems like too much of a bother to call a cab, so the guest bed in the study is made up, but only after the second half of that second bottle of wine has been shared as well.  
Head of house #2 spends the night with a couple of friends that he or she hasn’t seen in ages and gets spectacularly drunk, which seems like the sensible thing to do, given the fact that they are in a bar. When morning comes, it briefly looks as if it might not have been that good an idea after all, because said head of house wakes up in an undersized and overcrowded hotel bed- wedged between two mates who are snoring quite loudly and smell like drunken sailors. But that is nothing a morning pint can’t cure. In the afternoon, however, when the head of house returns to JC, still hung over, the drinking spree starts to look like a considerable lapse in judgment, not only because there is a kid torturing a trumpet within earshot, but also because on the coffee table there is that huge stack of tests that stubbornly has refused to grade itself all week and on the answering machine there is a message that only consists of swear words (17) and death threats (4).  
Head of house #3 begins the night on the couch with a detective novel and a bag of crisps, then opens a bottle of whisky and turns on the TV, only to doze off in front of ‘Indiana Jones’ thirty minutes later and then be woken up in the middle of the night by their slightly inebriated significant other who enthusiastically proposes sex but then gets distracted by the remaining crisps, the open bottle of whisky and the remote control.  
Head of house #4 is on the couch on Saturday evening, deeply lost in thought, when there is a knock against the doorframe, the bedroom’s doorframe and when he or she looks up, his or her significant other is leaning against that doorframe, wearing nothing but their underwear. The following conversation ensues:  
‘What are you doing?’  
‘Nothing. Or well, I was thinking.’  
‘About what?’  
‘Nothing, really. This and that.’  
‘I see.’  
‘I had no idea you were in there.’  
‘I was taking a nap.’  
‘I see.’  
‘So, sex?’  
‘Before dinner?’  
‘Is there a defined amount of time that has to pass between sex and dinner?’  
‘Good question. I don’t think so. Do you want me to ask the internet?’  
‘No. I want you to get up and march your ass into the bedroom.’  
‘Or what?’  
‘Or I will come fetch you.’  
‘Come fetch me then.’  
Admittedly, they are a bit late for dinner, but can conclude that apparently nothing bad happens when you have sex just before dinner. The same goes for right afterwards. And thankfully, nothing bad happens, either, when you fall asleep after sex and forget that you promised another head of house to check in on their kids during the evening. Thank God for house mothers!  
   
Both head of house #5 and #6 are out on a date Saturday evening- one is wearing a skirt, one isn’t, one is having dinner at a rather fancy restaurant, one at the pub, both are having a glass of wine (one voluntarily, one because their attention lapsed when orders were placed), both appear to be quite comfortable in the company of the man at the other side of the table, both appear to be enjoying the conversation, one is on the receiving end of a number of small, flirtatious touches, one isn’t, neither of them returns to JC that night and both get lucky, one is woken by a kiss the morning after, one by the smell of coffee, both get lucky again after breakfast, one of them two times.

***

'I miss Christmas,' Viggo says wistfully, or as wistfully as someone wearing only boxers and a JC sweater can.

'Mmpf ooh,' Eric says. It's 7:37 a.m., and he is brushing his teeth.

Viggo sits down on the lid of the loo, briefly interrupting the whole getting dressed for work business.

'Especially the tree because,' he says and the back of his head somewhat accidentally sets of the flush. The rest of his contemplation is lost to the sound of water.

Viggo has the usual day of snotty noses, heresy, and banana bread and returns to Arnor House only after recess.

He finds Eric in front of his flat. It's not like Viggo ever remembers to lock and even if he did, Eric owns more keys to Viggo's door than Viggo does, so he could've let himself in. Viggo finds that somewhat curious and doesn't go in either. Also, Eric is sitting on the doormat with his back against the door.

'Hello,' Viggo says. 'Is this a thing now?'

Eric's grin grows even broader, and Viggo crouches down.

'I'm just asking,' he says, 'because my knee is creaky.'

'Does that mean you won't be able to get up again on your own?'

Viggo weighs his head from side to side which makes him sway somewhat.

'Okay,' Eric says, 'so there is a reason why I'm sitting here, waiting for you.'

Viggo tilts his head.

'Is that the lazy man's version of serenading me?'

Eric snickers but shakes his head.

'Well, maybe. Let's just say that in the future? I won't outsource romantic gestures anymore.'

Viggo hums and tilts his head to the other side.

'Is there a stripper in my flat?'

Eric snickers again.

'Let me specify, I won't outsource romantic gestures to Gerry anymore.'

Viggo lets himself fall onto his butt in a full-body demonstration of shock.

'You hired Gerry to strip for me?'

Eric mirrors Viggo's wide Bambi eyes.

'Oh, that would have been way better than what actually happened.'

Without elaborating, he gets up again and holds out a hand to pull Viggo up. He snickers again when Viggo groans like he is at least 30 years older. Then he makes a gesture at Viggo's door. Viggo opens it, enters, and comes out about five seconds later.

'Hey, Eric?' he says.

'Yes, mate?' Eric replies, trying to keep his snickering under control.

Viggo gestures over his shoulder.

'Do you have any idea why my living room looks like... it does?'

Eric scratches his nose and takes a second look.

'Well, you said, you missed your Christmas tree,' he says while his smile tries to split his face in two. 'I accidentally mentioned it to Gerry over breakfast, and he had three periods with eager first formers and,' Eric glances at the flat again, 'apparently no lessons planned.'

'So...' Viggo says, drawing out the vowel, 'they went into the forest and...'

'Yeah,' Eric confirms, snickering again. 'And they did that.'

On the couch, the floor, every shelf on the wall, even on the ceiling lamp - here are leaves everywhere.

'Hm,' Viggo makes, not sounding all that unhappy. 'It looks like the forest ejaculated all over my living room.'

Eric nods wistfully.

'Yes. If that's not an act of love, then I don't know what.'

***

(written by noalinnea)

'You know, the thing with those leaves,' Viggo says before he shoves a spoon full of pasta into his mouth.

Eric hums inquisitively, not looking up from his plate.

Viggo looks thoughtful for a moment, chews, swallows. 

'Things live in them.'

This causes Eric to look up.

'What do you mean?'

Viggo shrugs and loads more pasta onto his spoon.

'You know, spiders, bugs, things like that.'

Eric groans.

'You're basically saying an army of bugs moved in with all those mouldy leaves?'

'They aren't mouldy!' 

Viggo sounds indignant.

'It's January. Of course they are,' Eric says with all the patience of a grown-up talking to a strong-willed toddler, and the tone of his voice catches Sean's attention and causes him to wonder who would have ended up taking care of their kids, had they ever had any, Eric or Viggo. Also, leaves?

'What are you guys talking about?' Sean inquires, not quite sure if curiosity really is the way to go here, or if he shouldn't rather opt for listening to Orlando bitch about some book that apparently questions evolution.

'Gerry--,' Eric begins, but Viggo interrupts him.

'Eric proposed,' he says, managing to sound serious for about three seconds before his grin betrays him. 'Well, sort of. I think Gerry did, actually.'

Eric huffs. 'I meant well.'

'I'm sure you did,' Viggo says. 'And I love it. And you know what, maybe I can trap the bugs somehow?'

'I mean,' Orlando says, 'how would anybody even consider printing this bullshit?'

'Language, Orlando,' Sean says by force of habit and gets up, but not quickly enough to miss Orlando's responding glare.

'I'm getting a coffee. Any of you guys want one?'

***

The door to the school nurse's office is opened after a soft knock. A lanky lower sixer pushes his bespectacled head through the crack he just created.

'Hello?' he says.

'Hello,' says Lily, the school nurse. 'What can I do for you? Did you hurt yourself?'

The boy doesn't push the door open any further, but his arm briefly appears in view to straighten his glasses.

'I am here because Mr Bana sent me.'

'Okay?' says Lily after a moment. 'Did Mr Bana hurt himself?'

'No,' says the boy, then frowns, 'At least I don't think so. I can't say, for the last two and a half minutes. He might have done in the meantime.'

Lily gives him a patient smile.

'All right, I guess we are safe to assume that the chances are very limited then.'

For a moment the boy looks thoughtful, like he is about to actually calculate the odds. Then he nods.

'Yes, I agree.'

'Why did Mr Bana send you?' the ever-patient Lily prompts.

'Uh, so, I'm not sure whether you were aware of the fact, but it's January, 23rd.'

Lily smiles and points at the giant JC calendar on the wall, showing a picture of Mr Bean's football girls celebrating a win in a month that is most possibly not January, considering there is green grass and sunshine.

'Yes, I know,' she says, but while the boy nods, she squints (perhaps she needs glasses) because someone actually wrote something into the small square for the 23rd.

'Mr Bana said I am supposed to remind you,' the boy says, 'that it is National Pie Day.'

Abruptly, Lily's calm is gone and she gets up from her chair.

'I thought that was on March, 14th,' she says with something like horror.

'No,' says the boy. 'That is National Pi day. Pi with an I. Today it's pie day. With an I E.'

Lily sighs.

'But nevertheless, you are going to bake, am I right?'

The boy nods, not looking all to happy about it either. 

'Mr Bana says the entire AS level has to. And he said you wanted a heads up.'

Lily checks the cabinet in which she stores the barf bags.

'I most certainly do. Thank you.'

***

The boys from Y4B get some odd looks when they walk into the cafeteria during lunch break. Most of them seem t translate to various degrees of "what the fuck", except maybe that of Mr Mortensen (that one is more like "this gives me an idea for a painting") and Mr Bloom who really can't be bothered with this shit.

When other guys from their year ask something like 'Oi, why are you wearing make up? The fuck?' the response is always the same.

'We had bio with Mr Butler.'

Which really is all the explanation anyone needs.

When Miranda, Dom, and Craig asks Gerry something like 'Hey, why are your kids wearing make up? The hell?', Gerry's response is always the same and he launches into a two minute long explanation of sex swapping fish and gender equality.

In reality though, Gerry kind of forgot to plan his lesson and had to improvise. Thank fuck for fourth year girls and their endless supply of cheap make up hidden away in their bags.

***

Something about Palm House has bugged Sean all afternoon, he just hasn't been able to put his finger on it.

His reason for the afternoon visit was Matt, in a semi-official capacity. There has been a bit of ... Sean would call it 'a minor issue', Christopher would categorize it as 'an absolute nightmare and shame on us all' with alcohol and drinking on school premises. And Sean is not saying that that predominantly concerns lower sixers from Wellesley. Orlando is, however. And Viggo. And well, pretty much everyone else.

 

So, Sean met up with Matt who is a cop, in order to get him or someone from the station to come and give a talk to the kids that will not put them off booze (because who are they kidding, they are 16) but to frighten them enough to hide their drinking better.

In any case, they've been talking about this - and then about Matt's love for food and Sean's... very healthy attachment to it - in Kiele's and Matt's kitchen. And the entire time Sean, who isn't that often a visitor to Palm House, thought that there was something off here.

He figures it out when Matt walks with him through Palm's hallways in order to get to the main house for some tea.

'Why is it so quiet here?' Sean asks abruptly. 'My house is never that quiet?'

Matt gives him a sideways glance.

'So I've heard,' he replies.

Sean's laughter is possibly the loudest thing to echo from Palm's walls in a while.

***

It's during the break that she spots him. She and Andrew have enjoyed the first half of Mahler's Symphony No.2 very much, and Cate has lifted her glass of champagne to her lips when her eyes fall on a familiar face a couple of paces away. Andrew sees the curiosity in his wife's eyes and looks over his shoulder.

'Anyone familiar in the audience?' he asks.

Cate hums and now takes that slightly delayed sip from her glass, her finger pointing out a more precise direction for Andrew's interest.

There are a couple of old women looking regal, but Andrew knows Cate well enough to be sure that their stiffness could never hold her attention for longer than a fleeting glance. Which leaves the man in the tux, about their age, with dark hair and a fitting expression, listening attentively to whatever it is his companion is telling him.

'Do we know them?' Andrew asks.

'You don't,' Cate says without taking her eyes off the pair. 'I work with him. You know, the slightly wacky Chemistry teacher?'

She finally looks back to her husband when Andrew lets out a short amused laugh.

'Should we check under our seats for explosives, you think?'

Cate's lips curve into a smile, and she shakes her head.

'One of the few things I know about him is that he really likes Mahler. I think we are safe.'

Andrew hums and takes her glass from her to take a sip, his own empty since thirty seconds after they got them.

'And who is she?'

Cate's gaze travels back to the pair next, but they are too far away to be overheard. West says something, his face not showing any emotion at all as per usual, but her reaction is clear even across the concert hall's big lobby. She seems rather taken with him.

'I have no idea,' Cate concludes.

Andrew chuckles.

'Yet.'

She takes the glass back, smiling at the trace of lipstick that transfered from it to Andrew's lower lip.

'Oh no,' she says and shakes her head. 'I'm afraid that shall forever be a mystery.'

Andrew makes a sound that is only 1/3 surprise, the majority of it intrigued, and Cate gives him a brilliant smile before hooking her arm through his to lead him back to the bar for a refill.

'I am good, but Mr West there? Dear, he makes James Bond look like an oversharing chatterbox.'

***

[27/1/2018, Whatsapp]

Cate [4:35 p.m.]: Sean, would you mind putting down whatever it is you are doing and meet me at your front door?

Sean [4:35 p.m.]: Just come on up.

Cate [4:35 p.m.]: I can't.

Sean [4:35 p.m.]: Don't tell me. You brought so much wine, you need me to carry it for you?

Cate [4:36 p.m.]: If that was the case (which it is not), then I would have asked you to meet me at the car park.

Sean [4:36 p.m.]: Too bad. Also, it might be an idea to not tell me beforehand that you come without wine.

Cate [4:36 p.m.]: My feelings are hurt.

Sean [4:36 p.m.]: I have a new phone and haven't yet figured out how to send emoticons. So picture me sending you a heart.

Cate [4:36 p.m.]: That is very sweet of you, but I would prefer it if you didn't send anything but came yourself.

Sean: [4:37 p.m.]: I told you to just come on up. What is the matter?

Cate [4:37 p.m.]: It seems your house is under siege. There is a very intense battle being fought on the front lawn. Weapon of choice: Water pistols. Waterloo?

Sean [4:37 p.m.]: Ah Christ.

Cate [4:37 p.m.]: You weren't aware?

Sean [4:37 p.m.]: Can you see which house colours they are wearing?

Cate [4:38 p.m.]: I can spot Wellies, Mirkwooders and I think there are one or two stray Arnorians.

Sean [4:38 p.m.]: Give me a minute and I'll meet you at the back entrance.

Cate [4:38 p.m.]: Why?

Sean [4:38 p.m.]: Fancy going to that nice wine bar in Harrowgate again? My treat.

Cate [4:38 p.m.]: Always.

Cate [4:38 p.m.]: And the battle of Waterloo?

Sean [4:39 p.m.]: Let Orlando deal with it.

Cate [4:39 p.m.]: God rest their souls.

***

On January, 29th, Christopher is away on what everyone but Gerry agrees is a headmaster's conference in Leeds. ('I am telling you, this is a cover story, no doubt. He is at a secret vampire meeting, Orlando. There isn't even such a thing as teachers' meetings.' - 'I was at one last Thursday, you muppet.' - 'That does not disprove my theory.')

It is possibly a good thing that the co-head of JC meets up with headmasters who are a. born in the 20th century and b. actually oppose him instead of taking the McKellen approach to things (listen, smile, nod, and then do what you want because you are the headmaster), it is also good because Christopher undoubtedly would have had a heart attack.

Because aside from the usual things that happen over the course of a day at a boarding school - one kid falling down the main staircase headfirst, thankfully wearing a bicycle helmet, one staff member (Karl) accidentally spilling their drink (Red Bull) over the copying machine, a small riot breaking out at the cafeteria during lunch because the muffins are out again - there are no less that five fires on school grounds.

The first one is a very small one and it involves one votive candle in Viggo's kitchen, a test run with it and a stray strand of Viggo's hair.

The second one is slightly bigger and is due to Marsters, being called to do something about the Gatorate incident, plugs in the copier, it short-cicuits and briefly sets itself on fire.

The third one again involves Viggo's candle, now moved from his flat to his classroom to act as an incentive to talk about mourning rituals. This time it is Viggo's shirt sleeve that catches fire because of its wearers too excessive gesturing.

The fourth one is caused by upper sixers from Wellesley who decide that since they didn't get any muffins for lunch, they may as well fire up the cheese grill in their common room. They get yelled at by Sean who really should be more lenient, considering that they were his choices and actions that caused the muffin shortage to begin with.

The fifth one is caused by the cigarette of a fifth former that hadn't been put out properly before it was hastily thrown out of the window of Mirkwood's second floor. It burns a hole into the snapback that is worn by the illegal fourth form smoker hiding behind the building.

The one proper surprise the day has to offer, though? None of the fires involved West.

***

Miranda chaperones a group of fifth formers, mostly from her house, on a trip to the Job Centre. Horrible traffic aside - they spent nearly an hour stuck at a bus stop - she finds the whole experience a little challenging. Maybe it's because it's a bit too easy for her to pick up the nervous vibes that the kids radiate, however much they try and cover it up with fake bravado, ostentatious lack of interest and cheap deodorant. It's not easy, typing in some answers to a test online and then having a computer programme telling you what you should do with the rest of your life.

John calls her in the evening, as if he in turn can sense her nervous vibes even from all the way in the Cuba where he claims to be. Miranda doesn't really believe him, and he pretends to be indignant for a moment, and Miranda pours herself a glass of wine before she tells him about the Job Centre.

'Oh, marvelous,' John says, and she can hear an advertisment for cheap cucumbers and "Morrisons makes it" in the background, 'I loved taking those tests. The last five times it told me I should be a medieval weapons specialist, ha. I do like axes.'

***

On January, 31st, West receives a cheque from his insurance company over an undisclosed sum of money. With a delay of only about eighteen months they finally pay out what they owe him for things that got destroyed in that fire in his flat that was caused by faulty wires (there was an official investigation, okay).

These 31 items were amongst the insured things: a pair of handmade Italian shoes, a football scarf, a framed map from 1925 of a country that is neither the USA nor Great Britain, an (unframed) honorary degree in something that has nothing to do with chemistry, two pairs of reading glasses, five Mahler CDs, an electric keyboard, a travel guide to the South pole, three wedding rings (one gold, two silver), a minature bagpipe, a Chinese vase, the collected works of Shakespeare (a ten volume set with only the one including 'Coriolanus' missing), one copy of 'Pride and Prejudice' and one of 'Lady Chatterly's Lover' one of the two not belonging to him, a handgun, a box of Legos.

***

Mr Butler is Jeremy Needham's favourite teacher. He has always been very confident in his choice there, ever after Mr Butler let loose a couple of frogs. In the bio lab, during Jeremy's first week at Jackson College.

He also thinks Mr Bloom is pretty ace. But that is mostly because he is a bit afraid that Mr Bloom might be able to read minds and so it's just safer to have positive thoughts about him, just in case his head of house is listening in.

But Mr Butler? Is the coolest. Like, today, he wore a shirt to class that had tiny sharks all over it.

***

It's dark already, and there is a little bit of drizzle. Viggo spent the last fifteen minutes with his face turned towards the sky.

'I'm not trying to catch raindrops,' he says even though most of that quarter of an hour he did just that.

'I just like that hm, dampness on my eyelids.'

Eric chuckles and wipes his thumb over the opening of his beer bottle before he brings it to his lips.

'I didn't say anything.'

It's not too bad, the rain, and one of its advantages is that everyone who steps outside instantly starts walking fast and purposeful to get back inside, which makes Viggo, Eric and their folding chairs pretty much invisible. The one exception is Orlando, of course, who came past them a while ago heading towards Wellesley. Eric would say that he and Viggo are pretty unrecognizable, wrapped in waterproof clothing as they are. But then, no one but Viggo owns an oilskin jacket quite as yellow.

'Hey, can we go to Argentina over the summer holidays?' Viggo asks.

'Why? Cause you're cold right now?' Eric asks back.

Viggo snorts and wraps his hands demonstratively around his thermos flask.

'No. I just thought it might be...' he starts, tilts his head, thinks. 'Somewhere.'

'That it certainly is, mate.'

Viggo hums and tilts his head back again. Eric tries to come up with five things about Argentina but really only can think of steak and the Falkland War.

'Hey, Vig.'

'Hm?'

'Tell me something about Argentina.'

Viggo thinks and tries drinking from his flask without sitting up. Some of his tea dribbles down his right cheek.

'Argentina has dropped 13 zeroes off their currency since 1970, a factor of ten trillion.'

Eric laughs. It's loud enough for Sean to turn his head around twenty yards away. Eric raises a hand in greeting and Sean greets back, elbows Orlando - too busy talking at Sean to care for niceties - so Orlando raises his hand as well.

'Pub?' Eric calls over.

'Pub!' Sean confirms. 'Orlando will beat your ass at darts if you wanna come!'

Orlando scowls at Sean.

'What am I, your fu - bloody trick dog?'

Now it's Sean's turn to laugh, easily beating Eric in volume. They walk on, and Eric watches them for a moment, rather amused when together they startle the shit out of a kid who had the misfortune of crossing their path past curfew. Eric thinks that the boy might be an Arnorian. But who can ever be sure of such things. He turns back to Viggo.

'Hey, Vig?'

'Hm.'

'How about we go to Argentina over summer break?'

Viggo gives the cloudy sky a toothy grin.

***

In a way, all six heads of house have an interesting first Saturday in February in terms of dates.

The most normal one is possibly Kiele's and Matt's because it involves a cold beverage, some food, and a five minute snog. It does, however, take place in a holding cell because Matt is working a night shift, and the food is crisps from the lobby. Neither of them mind, though, and when one of the constables walks in (without knocking), Kiele really wishes there was the option of locking the cells from the inside.

Emma's date takes place in a location much more suited for a first date; one of York's finest restaurants. She has excellent salmon which is about the only good thing coming out of this, since the man she is with seems to be quite thick headed, unfeeling and unprofitable. Richard, Emma decides and pours herself some more white wine, possibly never did anything to entitle himself to more than the abbreviation of his name.

Orlando is not on a date with 'his Richard', as Sean keeps refering to him mostly because it pisses Orlando off. Orlando is on his couch on a date with a thick book. That also pisses him off to the point of flinging it across the room at about ten o'clock.

Sean is also on his couch and he and Ashley are watching football. Sean loves a woman who can hurl insults at the ref at the television. Even if she is making him wear trousers 'because it's just what normal people do, Sean'.

Miranda is on a date with Viggo. That happened after Miranda had once again had to dump her most-recent boyfriend (rumour around Erebor has it that it's because he said that ducks are stupid, but that is probably not true) which threw Miranda into a small spiral of doubting her dating abilities. Viggo offered to go with her and be her guinea pig and give her pointers afterwards. No one - including Eric who nearly choked on his laughter - thinks that anything good will come out of this.

***

Generally speaking, Kathy Bowland thinks that first formers are annoying little pests, just above rodents and mosquitos. She is in her fifth year at Jackson, so it's absolutely natural that she thinks that way and has said something like 'honestly, first formers these days, so fucking rude! We weren't like that' to one of her friends at least once this week.

On this particular Sunday, the situation is a bit different, though, causing her to act. It's three thirty or thereabouts and she comes down from the second floor, headed for Bada to copy Maria's German homework while listening to her telling him what an arsehole Jason Inningham is, which is a fair trade off. So, she doesn't really have time for any heroism and any such life saving nonsense that comes with it.

However, she spots a first former on the other end of the corridor, pretty much pelting towards the door to Mr Bean's flat, and the whole Wellie spirit - bravery and cameradery in the face of the French (what ever that is supposed to mean, really, Kathy thinks Mr Bean mostly makes this up as he goes along) - gets the better of her.

The boy very nearly runs into her as she steps in his way.

'Oi, where do you think you're going?' she asks, one hand against his chest.

He looks up at her, equally surprised and annoyed, and did she mention how fucking rude first formers are these days?

'Let me through,' he says, 'I need to see Mr Bean.'

Oh, the stupidness of youth.

'Oh, the stupidness of youth,' Kathy says with a sigh and an eyeroll that is powerful enough to possibly smear her mascara.

'What?' the boy asks.

Still not taking her hand from his chest, she gestures at her ear, then at his.

'Tell me, what do you hear?' he asks.

For a moment the boy actually listens intently, then he shrugs.

'Dunno, some music?'

Kathy sighs again.

'Yes, but what music and where is it coming from?'

Again, the boy listens up and shrugs again.

'Mr Bean's flat? Some weird music?'

Kathy shakes her head and lets go of the boy, wiping her hand on the bottom of her skirt.

'That's David Bowie,' she says, 'and yes, it comes from Mr Bean's flat.'

'So?' the boy asks, frowning, and abruptly he remembers that he has gum in his mouth and starts chewing it again furiously.

'Oh, you can try your luck, little one,' Kathy says wisely. 'But if Mr Bean opens and you're scarred for life, don't say I didn't warn you.'

The gum chewing stops abruptly.

'Why?'

Kathy really can't deal with that much ignorance. She has German homework to copy. As she turns away, she still deigns him with an explanation.

'It's David Bowie . Figure it out, man.'

***

'Morning, mate. All right?'

Sean stops next to Viggo, and as his shoes stop crunching the gravel underneath their soles, it is quiet around them.

'And a good morning to you as well, my friend,' replies Viggo, his hands in the pockets of a coat that Sean supposes he might have looted from a Vietnam war vet.

A small flock of kids from Wellesley catch up with them, huffing and puffing a little - quite literally really because the morning air is cold enough for their breaths to leave tiny clouds. The group splits in two without slowing down, five kids walking around Viggo's right, three around Sean's left.

'Morning, Coach,' say two.

'Morning, Mr Bean,' say the rest.

'Morning, Viggo,' they all say.

Sean smiles at the good manners of his kids and chooses to ignore that the ones having passed on his side walked right through some mud. The fact that surprisingly it wasn't frozen didn't slow them down at all, and they will leave dirty footprints in the main house all the way to the cafeteria.

Even when they are at a safe distance, Viggo doesn't walk on. Sean raises an eyebrow, feeling the rough wool of the red and white bobble hat that Orlando gave him against the skin of his forehead.

'Is there a reason you're standing here, frozen to the spot?' he asks, feeling a little clever for his choice of words. It is rather nippy.

'Well, my left shoelace was open,' Viggo replies.

A quick glance down at his feet shows that that isn't the case any longer, though.

'So I stopped,' Viggo says, 'and when I looked up, I had this intense feeling that, hey, this is gonna be a sunny day. So I stopped to appreciate that a bit.'

Sean hums, looks up at the sky. He is no meterologist, but he finds it a little hard to tell, given that the sky is still pretty dark and the sun is apparently still kipping.

'Hey Vig?' Sean asks after a moment.

Viggo hums and randomly smiles at the sky.

Sean points at Viggo's left coat pocket.

'That intense feeling of yours? Was brought on by the weather app on your phone, right?'

Viggo turns his smile from the grayish sky to Sean.

'A little appreciations for the wonders of the world, my friend.'

Sean hums and rubs his nose and ponders whether Orlando could knit him something to keep it from constantly threatening to freeze and fall of his face.

'And by wonders of the world,' he says, just to clarify, 'You mean your mobile, right?'

Viggo's smile doesn't falter.

'I think we are gonna get waffles for breakfast today,' he says, and as they walk on, Sean wonders whether he has an app for that as well. He could get behind that.

***

Gerry, Eric, and Sean share problems over lunch. Problems lose some of their impact when you can share them with mates. And when there are muffins.

'Finn Perkins got a massive nosebleed in my class this morning,' Eric says. 'Gavin Marsh told him to stick his pencil into his nose.'

'At least he didn't tell him to poke it into his eye,' Gerry says, around a muffin.

'I had to interrupt my lesson while two of the kids wiped the blood away,' says Eric, mourning his lost math-time.

'That's quite unsanitary,' says Sean. 'Why didn't you do it yourself?'

Eric pulls a face and makes a retching noise.

'Don't be disgusting.'

Gerry shrugs.

'Haemophobia is pretty normal, though.'

'Mae Porter told me she was being bullied,' says Sean with a sigh. 

Gerry holds out a muffin.

'Who's Mae Porter again?' asks Eric.

Neither of the two bother explaining.

'That's horrible,' says Gerry. 'What are you gonna do about it?'

Sean shrugs, bites into his muffin.

'Guess I'll have to talk to Cate about it.'

'Cate Blanchett?' asks Eric. 'Why, is she in her tutor group?'

Sean shakes his head.

'Nah, she's the one doing the bullying, according to Mae.'

Gerry and Eric laugh and Eric makes a dismissive gesture.

'Ah, that's all right. Just your normal French lesson, then.'

Gerry makes a face, then continues picking heart-shaped sprinkles from his muffin.

'Justin Hart is gonna get killed because of me,' he then says.

Eric and Sean just stare at him. Gerry shrugs, looking conflicted and licking sprinkles from his index finger.

'I caught him on his mobile during my bio lesson. Took it away, despite his protest. Turns out he was in the middle of an online Roulette game - I think he is a wee bit addicted to that - and happened to lose 800 pounds because of my interference, money he borrowed from a loan shark in Sixth form.'

Eric and Sean stare at him. Then they stare at each other.

'Gerry, mate,' Eric then says. 'You know that that is not normal, right?'

***

[7/2/2018, 5:53 p.m.]

'Hello, my friend. This is Viggo and unfortunately I can't take your call. If you want, you can leave a message and I will call you back as soon as I can.'

'Hey Vig, I'm at TESCO now and I can't remember whether you wanted soy milk or proper milk. Also, they have fantastic looking steaks here - so I was thinking dinner? You remember that Gerry invited himself over, yeah, so I'm buying in bulk. Anyway, what else? Ah, yes, I think I just saw an Arnorian browsing for porn. Didn't know they had porn. Tesco I mean, and in the 21st century no less. Have they not heard of the internet? Anyway, I'm not 100% positive it was porn, I didn't see the magazine per se, just the kid's reaction, and that involved a lot of turning bright red, stuttering and then dashing away. He ran into a stack of mashed potatoe boxes. So, regarding his emotional well being and all, do you want me to pursue him or do we pretend this never happened, like that incident in the bike shed last week? Call me back to let me know, all right?'

***

When Eric wakes up, the light outside has changed. Where there was timid afternoon sunshine before, the sky is now tinted in the first gray of dusk. He yawns and smacks his lips, his mouth not tasting of morning breath but of the coffee he had earlier. One of his favourite things about napping in the afternoon, he thinks, that taste of decadent laziness. He yawns again and stretches his arms over his head.

'Ow,' says Viggo.

Eric lowers his hand, the one that just connected with some part of Viggo, and turns his head, turns onto his side. Viggo is lying on his stomach next to him, rubbing the back of his head.

'Sorry,' Eric says around a third yawn. 'You weren't there when I fell asleep.'

Viggo hums in agreement and stops rubbing. His hair looks like he was trying out for an 80s hair metal band. He gives Eric a smile, then his eyes flicker down to the mattress between them and his hand, brows drawing together in a confused frown.

'Have you seen -?'

Eric reaches out and pulls the pen out from behind Viggo's ear. Viggo grabs it, grins and twirls it between his fingers. It's very green.

There is a book of some sort resting on the pillow, but Eric would have to raise his head to get a proper look at it. 

'What are you writing?' he asks.

Shifting on his elbow, Viggo picks up the book and holds it out for Eric to see. A stylised sheep stares down at him, the words "My Friends" printed over it.

'It's Jellin Kirkwood's friendship book, she asked me to fill in a page.'

Eric hums.

'You know, the first former with the crooked pigtails and the oversized hoodies,' Viggo says.

'Ah, that one,' Eric nods, his flannel shirt somewhat scratchy against his cheek where his head is pillowed on his upper arm.

'What have you put in so far?'

Viggo's eyes look down at the open book.

'The easy things - age, birthday, favourite movie -'

'Did you put "Bullitt"?'

Viggo chuckles.

'That's your favourite movie, not mine.'

Eric nudges Viggo's thigh with his knee, and Viggo laughs.

'What else?' Eric asks.

'Favourite holiday.'

'That's easy. Christmas.'

Viggo turns the book, so Eric can see the pages and the miniature Christmas tree that Viggo drew into the space left for the answer. The field right below reads "Favourite Pastime". Eric pokes the page.

'What are you gonna put there?'

Viggo thinks for a moment and puts the book down on the mattress between them.

'Driving around with the Falcon?' he suggests, resting his head on the pillow.

'Nah, that's mine as well,' says Eric.

A yawn takes over, and a surprisingly strong wave of drowsiness washes over him. His eyes drift shut out of their own volition. This one of his favourite pastimes. There are not many things as lovely as an afternoon spent napping together.

'Put "sleeping with Eric",' he says, his tongue feeling heavy. 

Viggo chuckles.

'That might be misunderstood, mate.'

***

On February, 9th, these are nine things lasting either 90 minutes or 90 seconds at Jackson college:

1 - Orlando and Eric watch the new episode of "The Grand Tour" at Orlando's, and Eric very nearly dislocates Orlando's shoulder when Orlando dares to say that the Ford Raptor, like all other Fords, is a shitty choice of car.

2 - Miranda spends 90 seconds on the phone with West. It is not the most normal conversation she ever had with anyone. It is possibly down to her being scared that he is gonna find a way to blow her up through the telephone that it takes her 85 seconds to ask whether Gerry is with West. He isn't.

3 - Gerry spends 90 minutes helping out at the Pony Club even though it is raining and it isn't even Saturday and even though he and Jane, the club president, stopped dating a couple of weeks ago. She is still ridiculously thankful that he not only is capable of pretty much throwing bales of straw directly up onto the hayloft but also keeps all nine to eleven year old kids flocking around him, like little moths drawn to a huge light.

4 - Viggo spends 90 minutes staring at a white wall in his flat, contemplating various complicated paintings, until he decides that white and plain and simple might be a nice change for a while. He opts for taking a bath instead.

5 - Cate spends most of the 90 minutes of her morning French lesson in year five listening to Matthew Philipps and Nora Adams arguing fiercely over French politics. Their French is horrible, but their passion is rather continental.

6 - Christopher leaves a 90 seconds voice mail message on Sean's mobile that consists mostly of him saying things like 'I say' and 'unbelievable' and breathing heavily. Sean would maybe consider this to be a very weirdly sexy message if he hadn't caught five Wellies with spray cans earlier.

7 - Craig spends 90 minutes skyping with his family in Germany. His gran who turned 91 today appears more drunk the longer the phone call lasts and spends the last ten minutes - Craig and his father argue about Bundesliga results in the foreground - singing happy birthday to herself in the background.

8 - Karl and Beth have sex in Karl's kitchen for 90 minutes. Whipped cream was not involved; Beth only eats that later, when Karl has to sit down on the one kitchen chair they didn't just break because he can't stay upright any longer.

9 - Matthew Philipps and Nora Adams also have sex. It lasts 90 seconds. It kinda is Matthew's first time and Nora's intense hatred for Le Pen does weird things to his dick. Well, that and Nora's breasts.

***

It's a rainy day in Yorkshire, that second Saturday in February. But then, it's not like the weather is otherwise that peachy, so it can't just be down to that.

There are waffles for breakfast in the cafeteria that morning. However, given the kitchen staff's proclivity for those, a lot of JC staffers and kids should already have diabetes. Still, the delicious, delicious breakfast treats themselves probably aren't responsible either.

Breakfast conversations include 19th century philosophy, strawberry tarts, ways to change lightbulbs in the pitch dark attic of Austen House, poems written by second formers, the dramatic breakups of the last week in Erebor Manor, murals, football, and Gerry's suggestion of starting a juggling club. While the combination of some of these topics - Sean and Orlando and a bunch of Wellies juggle Marx, strawberries and the question of which house as a higher total of holey socks, and Eric and Gerry manage to incorporate Aussie rules football, tattoos and upcoming Valentine's Day drama in a two minute pantomime - might be unique, in total this is a pretty average sum of breakfast conversations on a weekend.

So really, there is no proper logical reason for why on February, 10th, breakfast lasts until half ten. It's not really possibly to explain why there is an amount of laughter (and waffles being eaten) that is way above average. 

Sometimes these things just happen.

***

To be honest, it is Viggo's fault. Not that he is gonna admit that when Orlando comes complaining to him, especially when he uses the words 'Your Arnorians' and 'creepy stalkers' in one sentence. Godless heathen.

It all starts out in the morning in Arnor's common kitchen. Eric has been roped into teaching a handful of third form boys how to make a breakfast that doesn't include burgers or waffles. Not that Eric really cares about their motivation - he does care about their sugar intake since that is directly related to them staying up fir too long and disturbing Eric's cricket watching - but Viggo strongly suspects that Thomas Zeto, Matthew Haverford, and James Freeman want to learn how to cook because it's Valentine's day in three days.

Anyway, Viggo is mostly sitting at the table and tries to write a letter. The fact that every three minutes or so, either one of the boys asks him to admire their creation or Eric holds out a spoon- or forkful of something for him to eat, somewhat slows down his writing process. And while he appreciates the nourishment, there is only so much ooh and aah you can offer in response to heart shaped apple slices.

'Why don't you take a couple of photos,' he suggests absently, around the end of his pen. 'Culinary art is art as well after all.'

'Too right,' says Eric around what Viggo supposes is a huge chunk of mango. 'Also, while you're at it, Jonas, can you take a snap of that leaky tap and send it to Marsters?'

Viggo returns to his letter to the sound of rather redundant sounds of camera shutters coming from several phones.

'Huh, this looks like something out of "Blade Runner",' out of Eric's mouth makes Viggo look up five seconds later.

'Show me, James,' Viggo says and holds out his hand.

What he sees isn't a leaky faucet. It is, and he is as sure about this as one can be in postmodern times, art.

And it all pretty much goes downhill from there. If you ask the head of Mirkwood and several of his charges who - if one asks Viggo - have been under Orlando's influence for too long.

'Hey, you know what?' Viggo says, that kind of excitement in his voice that makes Eric stop chewing on his banana and turn around, that makes James and Matthew (like proper Arnorians) instantly excited.

'How about we make this a project for today?' Viggo continues, eyes darting all over the kitchen, seeing the flakey window frame, the chequered pattern of the tiles, the light reflecting from the table in a whole new, well, light.

'Photo exhibition, this evening. Think of your favourite movies and find something to represent what that movie means to you. And take a photo.'

Thomas tilts his head.

'My favourite movie is Ice Age, Mr M. Where do I find a mammoth?'

'Dude,' Matthew elbows him in the side. 'Dude, I totally have an idea for that!'

He turns on his (sock-clad) heels and pushes Eric out of the way to get to the freezer.

Ten minutes, several ice cubes and puddles of water later, not only has Thomas his photo, Matthew's and James's enthusiasm has infected five more Arnorians who wandered in in search for food.

The enthusiasm spreads. Half an hour later, there are human sculptures under bedsheets being photographed, toasters standing in as Cybermen and for some reason, someone is trying to eat a cactus.

In search for new motives, they branch out after a while and something about creating art apparently makes people fearless and enter Mirkwood. 

Orlando doesn't per se have objections against kids from other houses coming to Mirkwood. What he does, however, object to, is little Arnorians cowering behind corners and scaring the shit out of his kids in an attempt to get them to fall down the stairs. And he very much object to someone getting very nearly Psycho-murdered in the shower.

Fucking Arnorians.

***

The sun is out on the second Monday in February which, in Sean's opinion, is a good a reason as any to start spring cleaning at his house. The fact that he nearly broke his arm, stumbling over some shit in his hallway, and that he has a handful of Wellie to punish for 'horrible vandalism' (Christopher's words, Sean rather fancies the graffito they put on the bike shed) has absolutely nothing to do with it.

'You're making your kids do your work again?' Orlando asks. 

He has been standing in front of Sean's flat, his arms crossed in front of his chest, for five minutes now and declined a cup of tea when Sean went inside to get himself a refill.

'Yeah,' Sean simply says.

Orlando transfers his scowl - previously directed at a Wellie carrying empty milk bottles in a way that will guarantee at least a couple of broken ones in the next minute - to Sean.

'You gonna claim this has educational value and isn't just you being fu -' he swallows the curse as a girl carries a broken lamp shade out. On her head. 'Lazy?'

Sean sips from his tea.

'Yeah.'

Orlando shakes his head and leans against the window sill.

'You want to borrow some of them to put up the shelves in your living room?' Sean asks. 'I loan them out; special discount for you.'

From the staircase, there is a sound of someone tripping, then a curse and a tumble, then milk bottles falling and breaking on the stone tiles.

Orlando looks at Sean and he doesn't even bother arching his eyebrows.

'No, thank you.'

***

Boris is taking out Smells of Minced Meat Man for walkies again today. And Boris is a little bit worried. It is foggy outside and when Smells of Minced Meat Man decides to finally go instead of warming his feet by the fireplace, it is almost dark outside.

Beth got Boris a collar that makes blinking yellow lights and is like a great big party for Boris's neck. On a day like this one, though, he wishes he could Smells of Minced Meat Man to wear the collar in his stead. 

Because of course it takes only ten minutes and Smells of Minced Meat Man is shouting for help (aka Boris) in the forest because he got lost again.

Humans. Typical.

***

(written by gattodoro)

On a particular morning in February the rising sun paints the façade of Jackson College in perfect shades of peach and salmon and the warm glow spreads across the grounds thanks to the crushed diamonds sparkling on every frosted surface. Despite the still sub-zero temperature that causes her breath to form short-lived complaints in cloud form, Emma is tempted outside before breakfast, hoping for a few moments of quiet contemplation before she faces the day ahead.  

Tomorrow she is charged with taking a large group of pupils into York to see the RSC live broadcast of ‘Twelfth Night’ in the cinema and she still has to explain to Andrew Hussein and his friends that expressing their appreciation for the occasion by cross dressing, while medal-winning in its intent, may not go down so well with their parents. Or with Christopher – he has tediously conservative views with regard to appropriate attire for JC pupils when on public display.  To be fair, Andrew’s thighs are really far too chunky to suit a mini skirt and yellow stockings.

More pressingly, Emma has a horrible suspicion that the Trelawney twins, JC’s answer to Viola and Sebastian, ae planning to  bring a whole new meaning to ‘mixed pairs’ if allowed to sit in the back row with their respective  - and unsuspecting - beaux. As if the impending teenage angst fest that is Valentine’s Day wasn’t bad enough.

A blast of wind straight from Siberia threatens briefly to disarrange Emma’s carefully styled hair, but she huddles deeper into her scarf and sets off at a measured pace for a contemplative circuit of the grounds. Alas her progress, and with it her mental peace, is disrupted twice during her stroll.

The first interruption is when she comes across Marsters loudly lamenting the vandalisation of the football pitch and the injustice that he will be the one to face the wrath of Karl and Sean – self-appointed guardian of the sacred turf. Emma’s sympathy is tempered when she observes that the ‘damage’ is insignificant being a representation of the Olympic rings painted on the non-playing side of the touchline. The rings are perfectly round and the colours are already bleeding where the morning sun has touched the grass causing Emma to suspect that this is the work of Eric’s first form trigonometry /cooking class  - or possibly Viggo - and that the ‘paint’ is actually food colouring which will wash off when it next rains. Which will be soon enough, this being Yorkshire.

The second threat to Emma’s equilibrium occurs when she fails to realise that the path behind the cricket pavilion has been repurposed as Jackson College’s luge track. Having first jumped out of the way of a pair of thundering idiots on catering trolleys, her immediate thought is that the kitchen will not be best pleased when they find out how their equipment is being misused. Her second thought is one of relief that the miscreants are not from Austen House. Were pupils involved she supposes she would have to intervene, but praise be neither Butler, nor West are her responsibility, and nobody in their right mind would ask her to cover their lessons, so they are quite entitled to try to kill themselves in any way they see fit. 

Christopher may complete the job if there is any damage to school property.

***

'I told you this was a stupid idea,' says Mickey O'Flaherty and slaps the back of Edgar Tomin's head.

'Shut up, like yours last year was better,' says Edgar, rubbing his skull whilst cradling his mug of tea to his chest.

'Both ideas were fucking stupid,' says Olivia Beacham without looking up from her book. 'The whole concept is fucking stupid.'

'Shut up, Liv,' say Mickey, Edgar, and Kevin Snap in unison.

Again, without looking up from her book, Olivia flips them off.

Vittorio Machiavelli's deep sigh echoes from the high ceiling of the junior conference room.

'Guys, seriously,' he says and points at the huge amount of roses and postcards in front of him on the desk. 'Can we not do this? Secret Valentines is something JC's student council has been organizing since 2001 -'

'Because your head of house is a moron,' mutters Olivia. This time the others ignore her and Vittorio just goes on speaking,

'-and nearly everyone likes it. So, can we get back to work?'

It's neither his imploring tone of voice or the admittedly large sum of thorny tasks in front of them that makes the other four refocus their attention. It's Sasha Bond's football wiping four empty water bottles from the table in front of the couch as her keepy-uppy-lucky-streak comes to a sudden end.

'Soz,' Sasha says, all eyes on her, and sounds anything but. She does, however, pick up her ball and with it under her arm makes her way across the room, cleats clicking on the wodden floor.

'All right, how do we do this?'

All of them look at Kevin in the arm chair by the window since it's usually Kevin's pragmatism that is the least work.

'Well,' Kevin says, honestly not having given it any thought whatsoever so far. 'I reckon we just have to tie one rose to each of the postcards and then suss out who delivers which batch when this afternoon?'

The others hum their agreement and gather around the table. Well, everyone except for Olivia who demonstratively turns a page of her book and remains seated on the couch.

Kevin's plan sounded great in theory, but it takes less than a minute for one of them to get pricked by the thorns.

'Fuck,' curses Mickey and drops the flower, sticking his finger into his mouth. 'This was so much easier last year. If we'd have stuck to chocolate, this wouldn't have happened.'

Now Vittorio and Kevin sigh without interrupting their task. Edgar, however, predictably rises to the bait.

'Because of Sasha's stupid head of house, of course.'

'Oi,' says Sasha and whacks a rose over Edgar's head. 'No dissing Mr B in here, I told ya. Besides, it's clearly Mr Bloom's fault.'

Different to Wellesley's junior head of house's loyalty to their actual head of house, Olivia doesn't deem it worth her time to even so much as raise a middle finger in defence of hers.

'Eddie has a point,' says Vittorio who can always be counted on for his good memory. 'If half the chocolates we bought hadn't gone to Mr Bean, then none of us would've had to listen to Mrs Otto and Mrs Sanchez going on and on and on about diabetes in bio.'

A collective sigh comes from the mouths of five of the six junior heads in memory of that. On the couch, Olivia flicks to another page.

'Clearly, this is Mr Bloom's fault,' she says, the sarcasm dripping from her voice. 'Mr Bean has a sweet tooth the size of Yorkshire and Mick's and Kev's health nutty heads torture us because of it. Obviously this is Mr Bloom's fault.'

'Shut up,' says Mickey from behind a rose that he has raised to his nose only to find out that there is practically no scent coming from it.

'Yeah,' agrees Kevin, 'we all know that at least 20 of the 23 boxes were ordered by Mirkwooders to fuck with Mr Bean.'

'To be fair,' says Edgar reasonably, 'we don't actually know because nearly all of them were anonymous. Mr B could've sent them to himself.'

With most of the others' eyes directed at her, Sasha feels compelled to scoff.

'Yeah, right, no chance. We charged way too much. Mr B is sick cheap.'

Apparently it is all right for the junior head of Wellesley to diss their head of house.

'Fuck,' says Mickey who just barely survived the attack of another rose. Again, around his finger, he asks the room, 'How many of these do we have to do, actually? Seems like a million.'

'132,' says Vittorio immediately.

The rest looks impressed. Well, save for Olivia.

'That's quite a few,' says Edgar, shaking his head. 'We had, like, what half the requests last year or something?'

The rest hums in acknowledgment of that fact or maybe because tying postcards to rose stems requires some concentration if you don't fancy thorns in your fingers.

Kevin peers at the list of names lying on the table next to Edgar's mug.

'Who's getting the most, though?' he asks. 'I bet it's Patricia Carter.'

He sounds very convinced, and while Sasha hums her agreement, Eddie and Mickey briefly stop their knot-tying-business to stare into space dreamily.

'Yeah,' both of them say with a collective sigh.

'Actually,' says Vittorio. 'It's not Patricia. It's not a girl, period.'

Mickey laughs which also helps against the third rose sting.

'Ha, then I bet it's Robert. Has to be Robbo.'

Before the rest of the room can make up their minds whether or not Mickey's assessment might be true, Vittorio again shakes his head. He grins.

'Nope, not him either. Not a pupil, period.'

'Oh, come on,' complains Mickey. 'If it is Mr Bean again -'

'It's not,' interrupts Kevin, his eyes on the delivery list. 'It's 43 roses for Mr Bloom.'

Olivia's scorn reaches the rest of the junior head's by way of a dark glare over her black-rimmed glasses.

'The fuck?'

Vittorio tries to turn his shit-eating smile into something more innocent. He fails spectacularly.

'By the way,' says Sasha, her skills with sequitors apparently even less developped than her talents for indoor keepy-uppy. 'Can someone lend me a pound.'

'No,' five voices answer in unison which possibly says something about Sasha's track record of paying people back.

Sasha looks up from her task and blows her blond fringe out of her eyes.

'Seriously, someone be a mate,' she says, 'I forgot to buy a postcard and want to send a rose.'

Four heads shake again. Letting Sasha borrow money equals throwing it away. Only Edgar sighs and fishes a pound coin out of his jeans pocket.

'Who's it for, then?' he asks, when Sasha thanked him, immediately put the coin into their money-collecting jar and starts scribbling onto a postcard.

'Mr Bloom, obv,' Sasha says and finishes writing with a flourish.

Next to her, Mickey glances at the freshly written card.

'"With love, Sasha Bond"?' he reads out. 'You're signing your name? Are you mental or something?'

Sasha blows at her fringe again, and her broad grin is directed at Olivia.

'Only cowards prank under the cloak of anonymity,' she says, waggling her brows at the junior head of Mirkwood.

***

To: v.mortensen@jackson-college.co.uk  
From: e.bana@jackson-college.co.uk  
Date: February, 15th, 2018, 4:55 p.m.

Dear Vig,

I hope you all arrived safely and the mountain hasn't swallowed you whole. Since your internet connection and reception seems to be spotty at best, I'll just write you an email and hope this will reach you at some point. Possibly when your on your skiers on top of the hill, a flick of kids behind you. It seems like checking your messages would be something you'd do in a situation like that.

Anyway, I trust that you are all okay - Miranda said that she got a text from Gerry when you were 15 minutes out, so I just hope that no bear or other snowy wildlife crossed your path.

Speaking of wildlife: Nice little story from JC for you. Happened this morning when I was trying to get the cheap secretary (whatshername, the one with the ginger hair) to give me some folders. You know, the other one, the obese one with the fable for bananas? She was bitching to her folder-withholding mate that for the last two weeks her tea bags were all kinds if tattered and torn and she had no clue why. She was giving me the stink eye, like she suspected me sneaking in at night to cut up her PG tips and possibly stealing some of the ageold gummy frogs she has lying around everywhere. Anyway, the three of us were standing there, doing nothing in particular when - and I swear to God I am not making this up - a mouse ran over her desk. Came from fuck knows where, ran straight for the gummy frogs, saw us, stopped, contemplated its chances, disappeared behind a stack of messy paper.

I swear, this place. 

For some reason the secretaries didn't react the way you would have - I suspect by immediately trying to christen the mouse - but screeched and ran out of the office to complain to Christopher. Gave me the chance to help myself to some folders.

Other than that? Nothing new on the Western front. Well, Southern front really, considering you're high up North. Sean just sat down at the computer next to mine (I'm in the staff room) and says hi. Send my regards to Gerry and please please film him trying to master a snowboard. All my life's wishes will be fulfilled then and I can die a happy man.

Oh yes, and you'll probably want to know that the house mother sends her regards as well and says the kids are well, even Jim? Jill? The little one who knocked his tooth out last night.

Give me a ring if you get a signal and if you're free.

Eric

P.S. TAKE 10000 PICTURES OF GERRY FALLING ON HIS FACE!!

***

[written on the back of a rather tattered postcard that shows a busty blonde on skiers that - according to the neat original handwriting in blue biro was sent from Sean to Viggo on February, 16th, 2004. The 2018 handwriting is done in black Sharpie, overwriting the original message]

Hello West!

Greetings from SCOTLAND where I am trying to teach a bunch of fourth years how to win a snowball fight. I am writing you to give you the sad news that none of them has even an ounce of talent, not in overt wintery warfare and even less in the more subtle version of espionage and whatnot. In the last two nights in the youth hostel, they proved to be entirely incapable of taking the wooden staircase without being heard by Viggo and immediately sent back. And I actually had to move a bunk bed because one of the (male) numpties got stuck behind it in one of the girls' rooms while trying to hide from me.

You will have to look for the next generation of super spies elsewhere.

Gerry xx

***

To: g.butler@jackson-college.co.uk  
From: i.mckellen@jackson-college.co.uk  
Date: February, 17th, 2018, 6:58 p.m.  
Subject: Re: Skiing trip to Scotland

Dear Mr Butler,

thank you for your email and the enclosed short article about your skiing trip. I will forward it to Mr Hodge and have high hopes that it'll appear on our school's Facebook page even before you return on Tuesday, leaving a little time for some of the pupils from year four to leave some live comments about their experience.

Thank you as well for the great amount of pictures you enclosed in that and the following five emails. I selected five of them to go with the article - the one with the snowman, the boy and the girl supporting each other during their first skiing lesson, the group picture with you and Mr Mortensen, the one with Mr Mortensen and the five kids on the top of the hill, and the wet woolen hat collection in front of your hotel. I very much enjoyed the other pictures as well, but I am sure that you will agree that posting them on the official school website might make us appear a little unprofessional, especially the ones involving the children's sleigh and the ones featuring you and the pine tree.

Thank you for chaperoning again this year and please send my regards to Mr Mortensen. I hope you will enjoy the rest of your stay.

Kind regards,

Ian McKellen

***

On February, 18th, at precisely 6:18 a.m. in Bishophill, Orlando has an orgasm. It is fairly early for that, but he has to be back at JC at eight, and as far as early morning showers go on a Sunday, Orlando reckons that the ones with orgasms still are the best.

At 8:16 a.m. in another part of York, Beth curses. Early morning runs are fun, but not if your idiot of a flatmate decided to use up all the hot water. She hates goose bumps on her skin, and while she washes her hair with chattering teeth, she vows to murder Christian in his sleep.

At 10:16 a.m. Eric nearly drowns. The incident is not witnessed by anybody, since it happens in his own bathtub, and there really is no one to blame but Eric himself. He really should know better than to fall asleep here.

At 12:16 p.m. Gerry takes a quick shower to avoid frostbite. He and the Scottish snow are on the warpath at the moment, and when Gerry looks down at himself under the shower and finds another set of fresh bruises on his chest, he reckons the snow might be winning.

At 2:16 p.m. in a first floor flat somewhere in York, the person living under Dom decides to move out. It is bad enough that the rude punk upstair takes showers whenever he pleases (like in the middle of the night), but there has to be a line, and that line is crossed when Dom starts singing Destiny's Child on the top of his lungs.

At 4:16 p.m. Miranda holds a short assembly in The Mines, one of Erebor's common rooms. She informs her kids that they'll have to wash themselves in their wash basins till tomorrow morning because Erebor's piping has flodded the basement again and the showers are a no-go right now.

At 6:16 p.m. Viggo accidentally breaks his phone. He claims he has frost bite on his brain which caused him to not end his conversation with Eric before stepping under the hot shower. That might actually be true - Scottish winters are fierce on a mountain - but it doesn't bring his phone back to life.

***

[19/2/2018, 4:44 p.m.]

"Hello, this is the voicemail of Eric Bana. Unfortunately I can't take your call at this moment, but you're welcome to leave your name and number after the beep, and I'll call you back. Alternatively, you could try 07700 900407. Cheers!"

'I am not really sure what good that will do, mate. I mean yeah, I could talk to myself for a while but really, I've already done that on the ski lift today and for some reason, conversations with oneself feel strange when not done in verse. And I couldn't find anything to rhyme with "Please, oh Lord, make Gerry not kill himself today". Well, except for "hooray" but that is a bit counter productive, don't you think?

'Anyway, I thought I'd be lucky to catch you before cricket practice, but apparently not. Or have you fallen asleep again? ERIC, GET UP, YOU NEED TO - no, wait. Once you hear this, you'll already be awake anyway, so there's no use in me shouting, is there?

'The day so far has been surprisingly uneventful, so much that I am expecting an actual avalanche to happen any moment now to make up for it. Gerry spent the morning with about half of our merry band, and from the snapchats I got, they must've found a flock of goats on their hike, or rather the goats found them and quite successfully robbed them. Gerry is now telling the tale of how Dick Turpin was reborn as a sandwich-loving black and white buck to anyone who wants to listen. And you know Gerry, there are a LOT of people wanting to listen to that by now.

'What else...? Yes, right. Please to remember to water the trees next to my kitchen sink, or rather... well, you can tell Sean to do it, yeah?

'And it'd be great if you could remind Emma Ludgate to call her parents about the year abroad. She'll know what I mean. Emma is the one with the fable for snapbacks, and she owns that purple pair of massive headphones.

'Yes, and if you listen to this before seven and if you see her, could you tell the house mother I'm gonna call her later, so she doesn't have to try over and over again. Don't tell her that, but getting back from skiing and finding eight missed calls waiting for me does weird things to my blood pressure, I think.

'So, yeah, I guess that's all for now? Have fun at cricket practice - oh and do call me back later, if you have time, because I seriously am dying to talk to you about the Lions vs the West Indies. What a way to secure that two-wicket over England, right? In all seriousness, Cornwall adding to his eight wickets in the match by also hitting the winning runs? That really was fantastic, I'm not gonna lie, and Warrican's eight-wicket haul? I mean, it's sad that the Lions let that potentially decisive lead slip, but it made for some brilliant cricket, didn't it?

'Talk to you later, and see you tomorrow evening, mate!'

***

Curiously, on February, 20th, there seems to be a more than curious coincidence - and we might just call it by its proper name: prank - that leaves a lot of kids from one house in particular somewhat, what is the word... Naked.

In a truly tremendously organized effort, unknown pranksters manage to not only procure the van-load of clothes that regularly gets send off to get cleaned, no, they also got their hands on most of the contents of about one third of Wellesley's inhabitants' wardrobes; including their head of house's. How they achieved that is subject of very heated conversations all over school grounds; corporate espionage is highly suspected, though the junior head of Wellesley Hall of course is outraged at the mere suggestion.

Naturally, the culprits are automatically suspected to come from Mirkwood. However, their head of house denies all accusations vehemently and a spontaneous (illegal) search of all common rooms by proactive Wellies leads to no results whatsoever.

(Some people - thought of as tin hats by the majority - suspect an unheard-of truly unholy alliance between Mirkwooders and Arnorians. Mirkwood's junior head just scoffs when confronted and says she thinks it more likely that hell - which she doesn't believe in - would freeze over. 

The so-called crazies would have found more supporters had they pointed out that Arnor's interim head of house is - unlike his significant other - actually mates with the resident atheist dictator.

(Meanwhile the actual head of Arnor spends most of the day in borrowed clothes as well and comes to the conclusion than his travel companion's kilt is both comfortable and practical.))

***

There is a knock on Orlando's door. Two of them, in rapid succession, the sound dull as it comes not from knuckles but the side of a fist; Sean. Orlando leaves his TV on, but puts his book down, if not the half eaten sandwich, then he makes his way over from the living room to the hallway of his flat.

Sean has procured new clothes, Orlando notes immediately as he opens. It's not the ridiculous sweatshirt he borrowed from Miranda yesterday - not even Sean can make a giant duck square on his chest look manly - but something slightly more normal. Slightly. His woolen jumper has snowflakes on it.

Orlando arches one eyebrow as he spots him and looks left and right, expecting an ambush. Sean's kids are suicidal enough to consider shit like that. 

But there is no one but Sean, and Sean isn't even holding a giant water pistol or anything similar.

'What?' Orlando asks.

Sean doesn't immediately reply. Instead he looks constipated. Orlando wishes he didn't know what Sean's constipation face looks like.

'I don't have your clothes,' Orlando therefore says. Which is true enough, and has always been true. It might be considered lying by ommission, though, since he knows perfectly well who does have them.

Sean grunts and glances down at Orlando's left hand, still holding the half-eaten sandwich. It's not the food he is interested in, though, but the wristwatch.

'Tis three to seven,' he says.

'So?' Orlando replies. It usually pays to be sceptical for a little longer than maybe necessary.

'So,' Sean echoes and looks up again. 'How about a truce?'

Orlando bites a chunk of his sandwich.

'I'm listening.'

Sean huffs again, then offers the conditions.

'I'm not gonna drown you in your kitchen sink, you're not ordering your kids to do a second mass burglary -'

'My kids didn't steal anything,' Orlando interrupts. Which again, technically speaking, is the truth.

Sean waves it aside with an impatient gesture.

'Whatever. No pranking for the next twenty five hours.'

On Orlando's forehead, his brows are just about to arrange themselves into a frown, when from his living room the first notes of the 'Emmerdale' theme reach them.

Ah.

Orlando takes another bite from his sandwich, this time mostly to hide his smile, then he steps out of the doorway, into the flat to make room for Sean to follow. Sean doesn't hesitate for a second. He heads straight for his usual armchair, aimed perfectly at the TV, and replies with a 'aye, please' to Orlando's question whether he wants a beer.

Just as the episode starts for real, Orlando sits down on the sofa, needing two attempts with his slightly greasy fingers to get his own bottle open.

'Mate,' he says conversationally as he leans back and watches the action in the pub on his tv screen, 'you're aware that - if that big reunion you're waiting for is gonna happen tomorrow - you're in for massive heartbreak today, right?'

'Shush,' says Sean, eyes fixed on the telly.

'I hope you brought your own tissues,' Orlando says in the same tone of voice. 'Cause I'm not wasting my toilet paper on your sentimental tears.'

'Zip it, Lando,' Sean says, still not looking at him. 'Or I will get my kids to retaliate so hard, you're gonna wish -'

He doesn't finish his sentence, the fictional drama taking precedence.

'Yeah, yeah,' Orlando says and puts his feet up on the coffee table.

Unsurprisingly, Sean doesn't make it through the next half hour without tears. Orlando will have to get toilet roll from the communal bogs.

***

These are 22 conversations taking place at Jackson College over the course of February, 22nd, 2018:

‘Viggo?!’

‘What?!’

‘Are you still under the shower?’

‘Can’t hear you, mate, still under the shower!’

‘Is my razor in there?’

‘What laser?’

***

‘Guten Morgen, Orlando.’

‘Fuck, don’t talk to me in foreign languages before nine in the morning.’

‘Tschuldigung. Ich vermisse Deutschland.’

‘You lost Germany?’

‘No, I miss Germany. - It’s been a while since you refreshed your German skills, hasn’t it?’

***

‘Here you go, mate.’

‘Cheers, Gerry.’

‘I put in three sugars.’

‘Why?’

‘Well, West, you know what they say about a lot of sugar in your coffee?’

‘It gives you caries?’

***

‘Who of you idiots unplugged the big copying machine? I just spend five minutes nearly unhinging my arm, trying to get the plug back in, and now I am late for bio.’

‘That was me, Miranda.’

‘Oh, erm, I’m sorry, Christopher, I didn’t mean to, erm.’

***

‘Good moooooorning, Mr Buuuuutleeeer!’

‘Aye, good one to you as well! Did you miss me the last couple of days?’

‘Yeeeeees!!’

***

‘Goooooood mooooorning, Mr Banaaaaa.’

‘Hm, yes. To you as well. Josh, is there a reason why you have my blackboard ruler stuffed into the back of your shirt?’

***

‘Gooooood moooorn-’

‘How often have I told you that I don’t want to spend half my lesson listening to you yawning out vowls?’

‘Soooooor-’

‘Ahem.’

‘Sorry, Mr Bloom.’

‘Right. Good morning.’

***

‘Gooood mooooorning, Mr Hiiiiiiill!’

‘Gooooood mooooorning, claaaass!’

***

‘Is it true that the Duke of Wellington had a lot of girl-friends and one of them published a book about it? Kinda like “Diaries of a Callgirl”?’

‘That is correct, Emma.’

*** 

‘And Mrs Sanchez, we need to start teaching women football, teaching them to drive trucks without crashing. "Hey, maybe I'm only sexy.  
"Then--maybe that's all you see, but at least you can give me extra money. Tip money and stuff. I'll flirt with you, write my name on a napkin.” They're gonna do it in a right, kind of legal way that empowers prostitution. We don't rest until we get that. That will be progress.’

‘That is extremely incorrect, Andy.’

***

‘And err, I’m breaking up with you.’

‘What? Why?’

‘Uhm, I would explain, but I got Chemistry with Mr West next and he gets really mad if one’s late.’

‘What?!’

***

‘How was Scotland, mate?’

‘Great, great, thank you. How is the pudding?’

‘Better than Tuesday.’ 

‘Hm. Listen, I’ve been meaning to ask you - I was in the basement of my house this morning, looking for a cricket bat, and I noticed that apparently you’re doing spring cleaning early this year?’

‘What now?’

‘Well, half of my basement is filled with clothes that, going by the red and white scarves, aren’t from Arnor but from Wellesley, and I was wondering -’

‘Fucking hell.’

‘Sean? - Huh, wonder where he’s running off to?’

***

‘Yeah, I know exactly what I’d say to him if he talked to me like that: Do one.’

‘Well, erm, but -’

‘There is no but. I mean who does he think he is? Like, God’s gift to women or something?’

‘Well, he is -’

‘I don’t care how nervous or whatever he was, that’s just no way to talk to someone, period. Especially not to someone you claim to be oh-so-in-love-with. Asshole.’

‘Well, thank you for that, Maria. A very clear statement.’

‘Yeah, soz, Mr Bettany, but he really riles me.’

‘Oh, we all understood that. - But you wanted to add something, Natasha?’

‘Well, erm, I mean Maria is right, of course, but I think she kinda forgets where Mr Darcy is coming from a bit here...’

***

‘Run! For shit’s sake what kind of a weak pass was that, Watkins? If you don’t want to play rugby, then get the hell out of here!!’

***

‘We have a problem.’

‘What, someone clogged you over the head and now you’re thinking you’re in a 60s spy movie? Why are you whispering in my ear?’

‘Well, - someone forget to inform Viggo of our joint clandestine activity and he happened to mention to Sean -’

‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, mate.’

***

‘Mr James, do you have a moment?’

‘Trisha, Janet, of course. What can I do for you?’

‘We were wondering... could we maybe switch from Mr Depp’s class to yours?’

‘Why? Does it clash with your volleyball?’

‘Er, no, err.

‘Mr James, he’s making us pretend we’re flowers. I don’t know how to be a flower! It’s hard.’

‘Yeah, Mr James, he’s proper insa- - err well, we’d prefer your class?’

‘I don’t know -’

‘Mr Depp said it was totally okay, though.’

‘Well -’

‘Please, pleeeease, Mr James.’

‘What do flowers even think? I mean, how is that even a task, Mr James? I don’t want a failing grade for lack of empathy for plants.’

***

‘Voulez vous coucher avec moi?’

‘In all seriousnes, Robert, you have to learn your conversational phrases. You can’t go to France and just hope to be able to rely on that one sentence!’

‘Mrs Blanchett, if someone can, then it is Rob.’

‘Did you just call me a slut, Jess?’

‘I think the correct term is fuckboi. - Err, pardon my French, Mrs Blanchett.’

***

‘Oi! - How often - there is no running in the corridors, lads!’

‘Sorry, Mr B.!’

***

Dom [5:15 p.m.]: We still on for that concert?

Orlando [5:15 p.m.]: Don’t text me during staff meetings. It’s unprofessional

Dom [5:15 p.m.]: Yeah, pull the other one

Dom [5:15 p.m.]: So, concert?

Orlando [5:15 p.m.]: When is it again?

Dom [5:15 p.m.]: Saturday

Orlando [5:15 p.m.]: Ah, fuck, that completely slipped my mind. I made other plans

Dom [5:15 p.m.]: Say no more

Dom[5:15 p.m.]: I’m the last person to get between a man and his plans with his dick / Dick

Dom [5:16 p.m.]: Cause I presume it’s with Richard?

Orlando [5:16 p.m.]: You’re hilarious

Dom[5:16 p.m.]: Thank you. I try

***

‘Who is a good puppy, who is a good puppy? Yes, you are, you are! - Did you miss me, boy? C’mere and - oh, did Beth give you liver again?’

***

‘Oi, Lando?’

‘What?’

‘Just a heads up: Our truce ends once Emmerdale is over tonight and then I will kill you.’

‘Counter proposal: Emmerdale ends and I tell you how we did it, and we call it a day.’

‘...’

‘I’ll buy you a pint.’

‘Well, all right.’

***

‘Viggo?’

‘Hm?’

‘Do you miss having sex with other people?’

‘Do I miss it or do I want to have it?’

‘There’s a difference?’

‘Of course. I can only miss something I experienced before, can’t I? So, for instance, I can’t miss having sex with, say, a cow, since I haven’t had it.’

‘I find that reassuring. - How would one go about that anyway?’

‘What, sex with a cow?’

‘Yeah, isn’t there some Greek myth about that? I have a feeling that someone in Meteora talked to me about it...’

‘Yeah, that was me. It was the wife of the king of Crete and she wanted to bang a bull, so she had someone build her a wooden cow in which she would hide.’

‘I highly doubt that would work.’

‘Points for creativity, though.’

‘Hmhm.’

‘Eric?’

‘Hm?’

‘Why did you ask me about lasers this morning?’

***

'Hey, Beth?' Karl says, when he can breathe again.

'Yes?' Beth replies and for a moment stops stretching.

From his position on the bed - flat on his back and pretty much unable to move - Karl stares up at her. She is kneeling on the mattress next to him, left arm raised over her head and bending in a curve, and she is naked, of course which makes sense since they just had spectacular sex.

'Hey, Karl?' Beth mimicks his question when he doesn't continue.

Karl raises his eyes from her breasts back to her eyes.

'Do you want to move in with Boris and me?' he asks.

Beth lowers her arm and rolls her shoulders in a circular motion, chest rising and falling regularly.

'No,' she says after a moment of contemplation and shakes her head, messy pony tail bouncing.

Karl feels a little pang of disappointment in his stomach, and that's a bit confusing, considering that that's also the place where the thrumming feeling of his recent orgasm still resides.

'Okay,' he says.

Without giving up her kneeling position, Beth bends backwards, so her elbows rest on the mattress, the left touching Karl's right knee.

'You and Boris,' she says, 'could move in with us.'

Karl chuckles because he has been to Beth's flat. It's a four bedroom one in a rather shifty area of York - the biggest of the four being the living room, and Beth and Aldis and Christian each occupying one of the remaining three. There's Chris's and Beth's training equippment everywhere, plus Aldis's computer stuff. Place looks like a scrapyard run by a schizo.

'The couch in your living room is all right for fucking,' Karl says and pushes himself up to his elbows as well, mostly for a better view, 'but sleeping on it? Nah.'

Beth shifts into a perfect bridge stretch before, from one second to the next, she comes to stand next to the bed.

'We could move to a bigger flat,' she says. 'I can ask Chris and Aldis, if you want.'

Then her head disappears from view because she does a split right next to the bed.

***

Gerry is not one to let himself be stuck in a maudlin mood, at least not fir longer than a minute or two. He guesses he has that from his mom who, within a week of Gerry's dad leaving them, went wild water rafting with him and said that she could buy herself flowers just as well. Gerry took Tha on as his life's motto somewhat, wild water rafting and bouquets - but he still buys his mom flowers every month or so.

Anyway, he isn't one for being grumpy and while he and pony club president Jane decided that dating one another was not the best idea they had in 2017 (Gerry's possibly was dragging West to a robot fight and he isn't 100% sure about Jane but thinks that her idea of buying Christmas jumpers for the Shetland ponies must be pretty high up on her list), that doesn't mean they can't have a laugh on Saturday afternoon.

So they sit on the pony paddock, on a ball of straw that Gerry carried out there, wrapped in warm clothes and the odd horse rug. They enjoy the rare sunshine and Gerry's teeth get frostbite when his mouth hangs open for five minutes or do as Jane tells him about the birth of Al Capony ten odd years or so ago.

Meanwhile, Al Capony steals the woollen hat from Gerry's head twice, possibly mistaking its yellow bubble for a dandelion.

***

Viggo wakes up to the smell of summer. But his feet are cold. Strange. If it’s summer and the rest of him is obviously warm and content from what must be August sun, then why? 

When he opens his eyes, he’s surprised by the strength of his sun shades - it’s so dark, it’s like it’s the middle of the night and he doesn’t remember ever buying shades that... no, wait.

He shifts from his belly onto his back, and there are soft sheets under him, the weight of a thick winter blanket on top of him, and his forehead is a bit itchy from the woollen hat he is wearing.

Oh okay. 

He is in his bed, and it is winter, and the reason why the wool is scratchy is because Eric must’ve closed the window again. His head is sweating. The window is to the left, so he got turned around in his bed again.

He closes his eyes once more and groans softly but pulls his hat off in a haphazard motion, nearly knocking his hand against his nose in the process. 

On the other side of the window, there are the sounds of a windy February night. But he still thinks of summer and wrinkles his nose.

He feels Eric’s presence next to him, but when his hat-free hand reaches for him, he doesn’t find his knee but his foot. Eric huffs quietly, surprised by the touch, then continues making quiet sounds that remind Viggo of... kissing?

He blinks his eyes open, and faint moonlight illuminates the room momentarily. He can make out Eric, sitting upright in the bed with his back against the headboard. There's no one else there.

Viggo wants to know which kind of invisible ghost of Arnor’s comes round his bedroom for a snog, but his mouth is still somewhat asleep. So instead of asking, he squeezes Eric’s foot.

Eric snickers, ticklish, and pulls it out of reach. Viggo huffs. Eric makes the kissing sound again, and again, Viggo’s brain thinks of summer. Of lazy warm days, of vanilla ice cream, whipped cream and - strawberries.

Because the foot isn’t there anymore, Viggo tosses his hat in the general direction of Eric’s face.

‘Hey!’ Eric protests laughingly, quiet. ‘Why do you throw missiles at me in the middle of the night?’

Viggo huffs and smacks his lips.

‘Why do you eat -’ he sniffs again, ‘strawberries in bed in the middle of the night?’

Eric audibly licks his lips, then his fingers.

‘Cause I remembered I bought them yesterday and forgot all about them? Cause I thought, hey, sweet strawberries in the middle of the night, sitting next to you and listening to you talk in your sleep about India vs. South Africa? Pretty neat.’

Viggo licks his lips and unlike Eric’s (probably) his don’t taste of strawberries. 

He likes strawberries, though maybe not as much as Eric does. 

He pulls his feet back under the blanket, thinking that that’s a brilliant plan because they’ll be nice and warm in no time, and doesn’t really consciously tell his eyes to shut again but they do it anyway. 

Eric bites into another strawberry, and it’s like this time, Viggo can taste it as well. It conjures up pictures of ice cream melting and very blue skies, and he can feel the too hot tarmac under his naked feet, climbs trees and counts clouds, his nose itching from sunburn and he smells straw hats and strawberries and -

***

'You won't believe what I found,' Dom says in that voice that instantly makes Orlando's mind time travel back to the turn of the millenium or thereabouts.

So he answers in pretty much the same tone, very much unsuited for the staff room and around ten in the morning.

'Your virginity? What were you doing back in that strip club, though?'

And Bradley, waiting for Orlando to explain to him how to get the second floor mobile media unit to work, goes a bit bug eyed while Dom cackles.

'Ah that was a precious moment,' he says, clutching the hand that is holding some small papers to his chest.

'I thought her name was Charity, not precious?' Orlando asks back.

'Erm, I got to -' Bradley says, still bug-eyed, and takes a step back, but then he tilts his head.

'Charity? In The Palace of Gondor?'

Orlando just stares at him expressionless but Dom's grin grows impossibly broad.

'The two of us,' he says, 'we need to get a pint together at some point.'

Bradley's responding smile is about as broad as Dom's, then his eyes slide back to Orlando.

'Uhm yeah, cheers for the tip with the -'

He makes a shaking motion with both his hands that has Dom cackling again and Eric and Gerry look up from two tables further down.

'Go on then,' Orlando says once Bradley has left. He points at the papers which Dom is still holding.

'What have you found?'

'You remember our first year at uni?' Dom asks.

Orlando lifts a shoulder.

'Most of it, why?'

'You remember that party we went to in Manchester? The one that lasted three days?'

Orlando's immediate smile makes Viggo, who happens to walk past with a big stack of photocopies, give him an even wider berth than usual.

'Yeah, you spent half of it with someone's underwear on your head.'

'Black lace,' Dom says, 'though technically it didn't belong to anyone, I nicked them from that shop.'

Orlando rubs his eyebrows.

'I had successfully suppressed that memory.'

Dom grins.

'With the help of quite a bit of stupidly expensive vodka, I think.'

Orlando hums.

'Yeah, I remember. Man, we were pompous assholes.'

Dom shakes his head.

'You were. Still are, really. But anyway, remember that hot girl we were both trying to pick up? The goth chick?'

Orlando thinks for a moment, then shakes his head. If possible, Dom's grin grows even wider.

'I'd forgotten about her as well, until I found these.'

He holds out the crumpled papers to Orlando. Somewhat apprehensively, Orlando takes them and is faced with his handwriting and - is that poetry?

'I wrote her a song?' Orlando asks, frown deepening.

Dom cackles.

'Nope. I mean, yeah, you did because you could still hold a pen and remember how writing worked. But you just wrote what I told you to; this is all me.'

Orlando stares down at the paper and shakes his head.

'You should never touch vodka again.'

***

Now, generally speaking, all pupils in Jackson College are eager to learn and whatnot. But really, one can cram only that much, right? So, in cases like that it comes in handy to know the sure ways to derail one’s teachers and get them to talk about anything else but algebra, them ancient Greeks, metamorphosis or William sodding Shakespeare.

With Mr Bana, you just gotta say, soz I’m late, bloody ice out there or something, and he will kick off about how bad the ice and the salt spread against it is for the underside of his car. If there is no ice because, say, it’s the middle of August, mentioning the sun works just as well; then you get a lecture about how sensitive the Falcon’s red is.

Mr Bean and Mr Butler respond best to visual impulses. Mr Butler instantly loses track of his plans (if there were indeed any) if you just happen to have a picture of your pet lying on your desk. First and second formers like this best because that way they get to talk about their favourite animals. With Mr Bean, it depends on whether or not you find someone to play scapegoat. Sure, it works if you just wear a Blades scarf to his classes, but who in their right mind honestly supports such a shitty football team anyway? So that really only works for Y5B where Damian Potter shares Mr Bean’s delusions. But it works nearly as well if you bring an Arsenal scarf or have a Wednesday sticker on your bag. Okay, Mr Bean might hate you for the next day or so, but he will spend a good deal of his lesson talking football, not Cleopatra.

There really is no use trying any of that with Mr M. First of, he actually knows what you’re trying to do most of the time, like he is psychic or something. And also, if we’re being honest, for something to derail, you first gotta have something like, say, rails. A track you know this is going down. Mr M’s lessons are more, like, a big box filled with stuff that is undoubtedly interesting and whatnot, but no one really would know what to put on the label of that box or how to connect any two of the items sensibly.

It is very easy with Mr Hill and Mr Monaghan. With both of them you just gotta look a bit dramatic (and let’s face it, which second to sixth former doesn’t have that look down?). Then all you gotta do is say really, sir, can’t we do something else this seems, like, so boring. Mr Hill will promptly come up with some strange task that involves coloured paper and scissors and you standing on one foot, and Mr Monaghan will laugh and agree with you and talk about punk bands or surfing.

Come to think of it, if you don’t feel like learning, the easiest subjects to get out of it are possibly philosophy and art. You just gotta look a bit bored or sigh a bit too loud. You’ll get out of doing your work immediately. Because Mr Bloom / Mr Lee will just kill you. And when you’re dead, there is no cramming.

No one ever succeeded derailing Mrs Blanchett. It just doesn’t happen. La, c’est évident.

***

Orlando [0:34 a.m.]: What are you doing online at this hour?

Sean [0:34 a.m.]: Are you cyber-stalking me?

Orlando [0:34 a.m.]: ?

Sean [0:34 a.m.]: Because you know when I am online?

Orlando [0:34 a.m.]: I needed the photo of the list you sent me earlier and Whatsapp told me you were online two minutes ago

Sean [0:35 a.m.]: It did?

Orlando [0:35 a.m.]: You maybe want to adjust your privacy setting, mate

Sean [0:35 a.m.]: You do that for me tomorrow.

Orlando [0:35 a.m.]: Why are you up? Mass hysteria in your house?

Sean [0:35 a.m.]: Nah, not mass.

Sean [0:35 a.m.]: Two of my kids worry about their A-level

Orlando [0:36 a.m.]: Pretty early for exam jitters

Sean [0:36 a.m.]: They got a demanding teacher

Orlando [0:36 a.m.]: Is it Jaqueline Robinshaw and Peter Darwin?

Orlando [0:36 a.m.]: Because if it's them, my advise would be cramming instead of whinging

Sean [0:36 a.m.]: It's not them.

Sean [0:36 a.m.]: And I didn't mean you.

Sean [0:37 a.m.]: In both their cases, though, I very much agree with you.

Sean [0:37 a.m.]: Anyway, what are you doing up this late?

Orlando [0:37 a.m.]: Was on the phone with Richard till an hour ago, am now working on an essay on Marion

Sean [0:37 a.m.]: Never heard of him

Orlando [0:37 a.m.]: You invited him to your birthday

Sean [0:37 a.m.]: I wasn't talking about your boyfriend, wassok

Orlando [0:38 a.m.]: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jean-Luc_Marion

Sean [0:42 a.m.]: Interesting!

Orlando [0:42 a.m.]: I thought you'd fallen asleep

Sean [0:42 a.m.]: Nah, wide awake. Too much coffee earlier.

Sean [0:43 a.m.]: Wanna come over for a bit of Key Largo?

Orlando [0:43 a.m.]: What, now?

Sean [0:43 a.m.]: No, Christmas.

Sean [0:43 a.m.]: Of course now.

Orlando [0:43 a.m.]: All right

Sean [0:43 a.m.]: In 10?

Orlando [0:43 a.m.]: You're on

Sean [0:45 a.m.]: How does one do the thumbs up emoticon again?

Orlando [0:53 a.m.]: You better open your front door for me right now or I'll throw a stone through your window, mate

Orlando [0:54 a.m.]: SEAN!

***

'You know, your mate Orlando,' Beth says to Karl, 'he knits, right?'

As far as greetings go, Karl has heard stranger ones, but he still scrunches his brows together as he follows Boris into Beth's flat.

'Yeah, he's a weirdo. Why?'

Beth's answer is momentarily delayed by a rather high pitched screech coming from the living room. It is followed by an excited bark and a low chuckle, then -

'I swear, Kane, that dog wants me dead. D-E-D, dead, baby.

'D-E-A-D.'

'I... I know how to... I was throwing a little style in it, just a little bit. A little style. I know how to spell "dead," dammit! I can spell "dead"! For shit's sake, Chris.'

Both Beth and Karl watch as Aldis exits the living room - interrupting the drama for a brief second to raise a hand towards Karl in greeting - to seek refuge in the kitchen. Boris follows after a second.

'So, Aldis and Chris are in,' Karl sums up.

'Yeah, Chris is cooking,' Beth says.

'I am?' Chris shouts from the living room.

'Yes,' Beth shouts back immediately. 

'You also gotta shop for groceries first,' Aldis adds, in the same volume, from the kitchen. 'Because with what we have right now, we couldn't even feed Mr Punchy.'

'Who is Mr Punchy?' Karl asks, in a much quieter voice, and just directed at Beth.

Beth grins.

'Chris got him a goldfish last week.'

She points at a small aquarium on the cupboard that mostly holds sneakers (the cupboard, not the aquarium), and to Karl's surprise the fish in it doesn't even swim belly-up.

'Anyway,' Beth says. 'Orlando knits, yeah?'

'Yeah. Why?'

'Well, I just visited this friend of mine - actually she isn't so much my friend as she is, ah, it's not important. Anyway, she has two cats, and she knitted winter jumpers for them. Against the cold. And I thought -'

She doesn't have to finish her sentence because Boris chooses that moment to come back into the hallway, a carrot between is teeth like a big bone. Beth looks at him, then at Karl, then she waggles her eyebrows.

'No,' Karl says. 'No way, nuh-uh, no way in hell is my dog wearing a jumper.'

The distress in his voice is enough for Boris to come over, drop the carrot at his feet and look up at him with concern.

Beth keeps a straight face for no longer than a second, then she starts snickering and points at Karl.

'The look on your face,' she says, dissolving into laughter.


	7. March 2018 + April 2018

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here is what happened in JC in March and April 2018.

During that short stint when Dominic had to live at Jackson, Gerry invited himself over about as much as other members of the staff residing in the main building. Very peculiar concept of privacy all around, really.

However, Gerry is the only one who kept that up even when Dominic moved out. And not only has he befriended Idris, Dominic's next door neighbour, he also seems to be on first name basis with the old man living on the ground floor and the young couple who like to have incredibly loud sex on Friday afternoons.

It's just who Gerry is.

On Friday afternoons - to the background sound of 'ah yeah' and ,yesyesyes' - Dominic cleans up his living room when his doorbell rings. Of course it's Gerry and of course he parks himself on Dominic's sofa and of course he provides a running commentary for the horizontal activity downstairs.

Dominic briefly considers giving him an iron and an ironing board so he can make himself useful. 

'What's got ya laughing, mate?' Gerry asks, looking at Dominic slightly perplexed.

***

On Saturday morning, the first in March, Dom wakes up around five because his bladder screams at him that it's either getting up now or else.

His brain, however, is not so down with that plan and only wakes up when Dom walks into a door that has no business being there.

'Oi, keep it down,' a dark rumbly voice says from another room - and that much disapproval? Even mostly asleep Dom knows that it belongs to Orlando.

'Fuck off,' Dom replies and his throat feels like a budgie died in there two weeks ago.

He makes his way from Orlando's bedroom to his bathroom, and when he is done putting most of the alcohol into the loo, he leaves the bathroom again.

'Wash your hands, you pig,' Orlando says.

Dom rubs his eyes and shoots a blurry dark glare across the living room. Orlando sits at his dining room table that, as far as Dom can remember, has never been used for cozy dinners. It is covered in books, as per usual, and empty bottles of beer and vodka and - is that sherry? What the hell? - stick out in between the stacks of paper like tall trees out of a city's skyline. Orlando pauses typing into his laptop to glare at Dom.

'Fuck off,' Dom says and turns back to Orlando's bedroom where once again he collapses on top of the covers.

When he wakes up again about four hours later, his ass is freezing cold, but his brain cells are mostly in working order again. And as they reassemble the previous night, he spends five minutes snickering into Orlando's pillow.

Mirkwood is active on the other side of the walls, but Orlando's flat itself is quiet and Dom doesn't get insulted when he comes into the living room this time.

Orlando is still sitting at the table, his head pillowed on what Dom supposes is possibly Nietzsche, given the tender way Orlando's right hand cradles it. He is either dead or fast asleep.

For a moment, Dom tries remembering whether Orlando is actually on duty right now. That lasts for about two seconds then Dom decides that he couldn't care less. He spends the next five minutes gathering all the empty bottles and arranging them around Orlando's head. Then he takes a photo. Or fifteen.

Still life with drunkard.

***

During breakfast, a Wellie steps up to the teachers' table, half a breadroll stuffed in his mouth. Thus somewhat hindered from talking, he thinks it sufficient to just hold out a small parcel in Sean's direction and make encouraging noises.

'I wouldn't take that,' Gerry says, helping himself generously to some more fruit. 'It's probably a bomb.'

The Wellie who acted as a postman bids a hasty retreat, the teachers, however, don't seem all that alarmed.

'Unlike you Sean's not besties with a homicidal maniac,' Eric points out.

Viggo glances at Orlando and seems of a good mind to object, but he too has quite a lot of bread in his mouth at that point.

'No one would send me a bomb, especially on a Sunday,' Sean says as his waffle-greasy fingers leave some prints on the wrapping.

'There's no regular postal service on Sundays, is there?' Gerry, surprisingly accurately, points out.

'Nah, it's fine,' Sean replies. 'Mail gets misplaced in my house a lot.'

He helps himself to Emma's knife to slit open the mysterious parcel. without commenting on it, Emma in turn takes his tea spoon as a hostage while everyone else watches as Sean unwraps it.

'A book,' Miranda points out, voice flat. 'Now that is a bit anticlimactic.'

'Well, I would've been surprised if a parcel with that shape would've contained, say, a bicycle,' Viggo says, having swallowed his mouthful of bread-with-jam. 'Although that would've been a neat trick, folding it up like that.'

Gerry looks delighted at the idea, and he and Viggo exchange ideas for as well as experiences with foldable bikes. Next to Sean, Orlando looks like he wants to repurpose some of the fresh fruit on the table to stuff it into his ears. Chewing on his baked beans, he watches as Sean inspects his new book and starts leafing through it.

'That one of the ones you bought Thursday night?'

Sean doesn't immediately reply, but a frown forms on his forehead.

'You do remember that, yeah?' Orlando prompts him. 'Cause it was a bit late when you decided you needed to go on eBay and find stuff on the Tudors.'

'No, I remember,' says Sean and then doesn't follow that up with anything, eyes scanning the page. His frown grows deeper, then suddenly it dissolves and he chuckles.

Orlando makes a huffing sound, another prompt.

'Remind me, next time,' Sean says, putting the book down next to him. 'To double check that I am searching in the right dynasty.' He pats the books cover. 'This is about Henry VII, the Holy Roman emperor.'

Orlando merely rolls his eyes. Viggo, however, interrupts his conversation with Gerry that, meanwhile, has somehow turned to air travel by Zeppelin.

'Oh, can I borrow that by any chance? I've just been reading Dante's Paradiso again, and that Henry is the famous alto Arrigo in it.'

'Is he, now?' Sean says with interest, very much ignoring the instant thunder cloud forming over Orlando's head.

***

Right next to the footpath that connects Arnor House and Palm house, there is a batch of shrubbery that has been the groundskeepers' mortal enemy for decades. Over the years - after trying to dig it up, spray it extensively with all kinds of pesticides and other poison and trying to fence it in - groundskeeper and shrub have developed a modus operandi that works for both parties; they just ignore one another.

The thing with the shrub is that it is not particularly pretty and ruins the overall look. However, what it lacks in looks it makes up for in persistence and poisonessness. Let's just say that poison ivy would blush and hang its head in shame.

While the lack of aesthetic value is the true reason for the groundskeepers' hatred, JC's student body really only resents the allergic reactions that even the slightest contact with the leaves brings with it. It's too bad that the shrub stands exactly where a convenient shortcut to Mirkwood would be perfectly situated.

So every year the new first formers try their luck. And every year the shrub wins. The three heads of house whose inhabitants the ensuing red blotches of skin and blisters concern most have yet to find a good method of preventing contact.

Their reaction to the never ending string of itchy and whinging first formers is highly routinized. By now they don't even have to look at the skin irritations anymore to react.

'The bush is poisonous, yes. The school nurse will give you something for it, don't worry.'

'Shower it off. And then you can write me a short essay on why it's prudent to listen to your head of house when he tells you to stay on the designated paths.'

'Ah yes, the mighty shrub of evil. Trust me, it has happened to all of us. Besides, red is a colour that suits you.'

***

Margot Tanningham has been working with plants for forty years. First she helped out in her parents' flower shop, then for a brief time in the 80s she designed bouquets for weddings and when that didn't pan out (much like her own marriage), she let herself be headhunted by the local gardening center.

"Plants and More" is a nice enough place to work at. Margot gets along with most of her colleagues (with the exception of Maurice because he is a pompous idiot), the coffee machine in the break room is great and she gets a 20% discount on everything aside from garden furniture. These and more are good enough reasons to shrug off the occasional weirdo, even though Margot has to admit that even she was a bit appalled when security caught a burglar on camera last summer whose interest was not in stealing anything but who spend half an hour humping a sack of soil.

So she doesn't even so much as glance up from her cash register when two middle-aged men (one with a red and white scarf and a candy bar between his teeth, the other one wearing a felt hat that makes him look like an escapee from a prison in Siberia) step up to it, continuing their conversation as they put the items they intend to purchase in front of her.

'Another cactus, mate?'

'Tis pretty, isn't it?'

'Sure is. Doubt he's gonna appreciate it, though.'

'Say what you want, but he's kept the one alive I gave him when he first came back, didn't he?'

'Something which I have yet to forgive you.'

'What, Lando's green thumb?'

'You conjuring the devil himself.'

'Good thing you're not dramatic, mate.'

'I've never been dramatic in my life!'

The man with the cactus and the candy bar doesn't reply but, after a three seconds' delay laughs. It makes Margot look up because golly, that is a sexy sound that goes right to her womanly flower. The man's smile matches the sound in attractiveness. He catches her looking and winks at her before he returns his attention to felt-hat-man and points at the mid-sized Douglas fir he just heaved onto the counter.

'Right, mate. And it's not as if your buying this to reuse your Christmas decorations in March, aye?'

Felt-hat-man gives him a look that faintly reminds Margot of the one on the soil fancier's face when he returned to "Plants and more" and Maurice recognized him from the security tape.

***

As far as romantic gestures go, Viggo is an easy mark to begin with. Everybody knows that. Even the more cynical people - let’s call them Smirkwooders - are aware of that fact, and some of them (secretly) admire that much unadulterated joy over stupid random things like a red dice he finds in his pocket.

So, it is not really a surprise that Viggo, when opening his classroom on the ground floor, stops in the doorway when he sees the window and laughs in delight.

‘Well, will you look at that?’ he says and before Y5C can push past him, he turns towards them and immediately finds Suzanna Moore’s face in the crowd. It’s not that hard to find since it is already beet-red.

‘Seems like Jonathan had something to tell you, Suza,’ he says, still grinning like a loon.

Chattering, the pupils enter and spend the next five minutes deciphering the somewhat black-marker poetry that Suza’s boyfriend wrote across two of the four windows from the outside. He even went to the trouble of writing it from right to left to make it easier for the “owner of his heart - so funny and so smart”.

Everyone is delighted, and Viggo says that he sincerely hopes that Jonathan used permanent marker ‘because that is gonna stay there till the end of the year’.

Somewhat unfortunately, however, Orlando and Christopher choose that moment to cross the school grounds together. 

Two stories up, in the bio lab, Gerry stops his explanation of metaphorphosis mid-sentence and stares out the window just as Christopher and Orlando halt abruptly, close enough for Gerry to see their faces.

‘Christ in heaven,’ he says, eyes wide, ‘The end of the world has come.’

***

These are eight things chalk is being used for in Jackson College on March, 8th:

Bradley and his English lit class create an overview for "Midsummernight's Dream" on the blackboard. The result looks like they all were on drugs.

Sean explains the absolute power of an absolutistic monarch to his third form by drawing a huge spider's web onto his blackboard, placing a spider with the head of Louis XIV at the centre of it.

Dom uses a piece of chalk to throw it across the room, aiming for Khalid Aziz. It hits him right on the head, and Khalid jerks up from his momentary slumber.

Bernard breaks two perfectly good pieces of chalk by letting them roll off his desk while providing a running commentary, thus demonstrating the narrative concepts of time compression and acceleration.

Oliver Morris uses it to draw a large and anatomically incorrect penis onto the back of Peter Darwin's jacket.

Gerry uses it to draw an even larger and anatomically not only correct but very detailled penis onto his black board. Technically, he wouldn't have to because there are several work sheets to choose from when teaching health. But really, what would be the point of that?

Oliver Morris uses the same piece of chalk he nicked earlier to draw a larger onto the wall of the boys lavatory. To Gerry's credit, that one is now slightly more realistic.

Khalid Aziz nicks a piece of chalk, grinds it to a fine powder and sells it to Oliver Morris, saying it is cocaine. Oliver spends the entire sixth period sneezing uncontrolably.

***

When Eric returns from the car wash, Arnor House is pretty quiet. So quiet in fact, that even Eric would notice and find it weird, had he not run into Kiele who told him about the afternoon-movie-marathon in the main building.

Because of that he manages to get to his flat without any pupil interaction, which is always a plus. There he spends fifteen minutes scrubbing dirt and grease from under his fingernails before he goes to look for Viggo. Annoyingly he isn't in the first five places that he looks (Viggo's bed, Eric's bed, Eric's bathtub, Viggo's study, the cupboard under Viggo's sink where a pipe leaks water and Viggo insists he can fix it by himself) and when Eric sends him a Snapchat of a close up of his quizzical face, he doesn't get an answer. So he has to go and look for him in the rest of the house.

'Hey, have you seen Mr Mortensen?' he asks a girl on the stairway.

She looks at him funnily for a moment, but she is wearing a blue-and-silver scarf with a star on it, so Eric is pretty sure that she is an Arnorian.

'Uh, Red Room?' she says, like he should know the answer to that.

Eric smiles and nods and makes his way to Arnors main common room.

He finds Viggo there all right, on one of the sofas on the upstairs gallery. Aside from two boys downstairs playing chess, he is the only one there, and he seems to have been reading Alice in Wonderland. At least the book lies open on his chest. He isn't reading at the moment, though, it's pretty much impossible to read with one's eyes closed. With his head leaned back against the upholstery, he seems to be napping and doesn't even stir when Eric sits down next to him.

For a moment he wonders whether Viggo is currently dreaming of following the white rabbit, or probably the Hatter is more likely.

'Falcon clean again?' Viggo asks after a minute. The words are slurred and he doesn't open his eyes.

Eric hums a confirmation and while he starts exchanging whatsapps with Orlando on embodied mind theories, he hears Viggo's breathing evening out again.

***

'Ah, so this is what it feels like to be a proper grown up,' Dom says and lifts the prosecco to his lips whilst making eye contact with Orlando over the bistro's table.

Orlando finishes chewing his scrambled egg while staring back. Then he puts his fork down.

'Two things,' he says gravely. 'We're only sitting here and not at Mc Donald's because my kids annexed the place.'

Dom makes a gurgling sound with his bubbly but otherwise just nods. He also rolls his eyes because it is - and he stated that repeatedly - a complete mystery to him how Orlando can agree to go underwear or whatever shopping with Mirkwooders on a Saturday morning. Orlando keeps reminding him that a. he can't very well let a horde of eleven year olds loose on York without some supervision and b. Dom should remember that Sean did the same with them when they were Wellies. Dom happens to disagree - for one thing, he didn't believe in underwear back then - but Orlando as per usual doesn't let that count.

Anyway.

'Secondly,' Orlando continues, his eyes on the prosecco glass in Dom's hand. 'You need to stop binge watching "Sex and the city" and cut back some on the weed.'

Dom puts his glass down with enough force to catch the attention of the two women, looking like Sex and the City extras, at the next table.

'You take that back!' he says, feigning outrage. 'A life without sweet Mary is meaningless.'

Orlando picks up his fork again.

'I didn't say "quit", did I?' he replies calmly. 'Coincidentally, what are you doing next weekend?'

The mock outrage disappears from Dom's face in favour of a grin.

'Amsterdam?' he asks.

Orlando wiggles his eyebrows and shoves a piece of sausage into his mouth.

***

'I haven't got the foggiest, mate. Reckon it's up to you to get us out.'

The three first form Wellies, in front of whom Gerry is crouching, look at him with very earnest faces. When Noah Gordon switches his gaze from Gerry to Sean, Sean does his best to hide his smile.

'I reckon,' Gerry says and gestures at the compass in Archie Fontwell's and the map in Larissa Turner's hand, 'You should give those another go and confer with the rest of the group, hm?'

All three nod and run off, brown leaves crunching under their feet. Archie falls over a root (of course he does) but gets up much quicker than Gerry does from his crouching position.

When he finally does and stands next to Sean again, Sean holds out his thermos flask.

'You got whiskey in there?' Gerry asks.

'Christ no,' Sean laughs. 'Tea.'

Gerry nods but then shakes his head when Sean offers the flask again.

For a couple of moments they stand there in silence, Sean thinking that he could have put on a second pair of socks, Gerry see-sawing slightly on his feet as he watches the kids figure out a way out of the woods.

'Cheers for this,' Sean says.

Gerry looks at him curiously.

'For what?'

Sean pulls his other hand out of the pocket of his coat to point at the twelve little Wellies just as they decide on a direction and run off.

'Turning Sunday walks into treasure hunts.'

'Come on!' Larissa yells at them and urgently waves. 'We figured it out!'

'Yeah!' Archie agrees. 'Don't dawdle!'

Gerry waves back at them and he and Sean start following in a much slower pace.

'My pleasure,' Gerry says to Sean, just as Archie falls into another pile of leaves.

***

'Ah, crap.'

The handful of coins that Sean has been holding clatters onto the wooden floorboards of the Pony. Orlando rolls his eyes but crouches down next to Sean to pick it up. Sean is paying for his beer after all.

'Makes you wish we were in the USA, hm?' Sean says as he puts the last coin onto the counter.

Both Orlando and Aaron, the bar man, look at him sceptically.

'Because they pay everything with their credit cards there,' Sean explains.

Orlando sits down on his stool again, still looking sceptical.

'Yeah, no,' says Aaron very gravely and returns to polishing the pint glass in his hand.

'Who knows what that floor came into contact with in the last week alone,' Sean says to Orlando, quietly, but not quietly enough. Aaron looks even darker than usual. Orlando's face, however, lights up.

'Yeah, shouldn't have said that. He's gonna spit into your beer now,' he replies and since he actually knows how to keep his voice down, Aaron doesn't give him the stink eye.

Sean doesn't look all that bothered, however. He sits down next to Orlando again and studies the display of crisps with far more concentration than three different flavours of Lays really warrant.

'Hey, did you here what's going on at Arnor since the weekend?' he says, licking his lips, as he was bound to when contemplating crisps.

Orlando is silent for long enough for Sean to quickly decide on salt-and-vinegar to then look at him. Orlando's right brow is raised and he looks at Sean with long-suffering patience.

'No?' he says because of course he doesn't. 'Viggo tried carving Cristo Redentor out of a big block of cheese?'

Sean laughs and picks up the pint that Aaron just put down in front of him.

'Pretty sure he already did that at some point. But no, that's not it.' He raises the glass to toast in Orlando's direction, not waiting for Aaron to finish the second pint as well. After taking a sip, he licks foam from his lips and shakes his head.

'Nah, I just thought you heard cause it's an interesting experiment, from a marxist's point of view.'

Orlando hums.

'Yeah, as long as Viggo hasn't finally taken the bit about organized religion and opium for the people to heart, I'm not interested.'

Aaron puts the second glass in front of Orlando and scoops Sean's little pile of somewhat sticky coins into his palm.

'They abolished money,' Sean says, waiting with the information until Orlando has raised the glass to his lips, because of course he does.

Orlando only chokes a little bit, but it is enough for Sean to grin broadly as he exemplifies.

'Saturday and Sunday, all otherwise money-based exchanges were off limits.'

Orlando is done coughing and wipes his hand over his mouth.

'Instead they did what, pay in handjobs?'

That gets him the vestige of a smirk from Aaron and a cuff against the shoulder from Sean.

'Vouchers,' Sean says, shaking his head in reprimand, 'they paid in vouchers. Like, emptying the dishwasher, proof-reading, dibs for the billiard table.'

Orlando is back to his usual expression of bored dismay.

'How did that end?'

Instead of answering, Sean shifts slightly on his seat in order to get out his wallet. he puts five slips of paper he pulled from it onto the counter in front of Orlando.

'Let's just say I spent the afternoon helping out some Arnorians in need,' he says as Orlando inspects the slips a little closer. And as a smirk starts forming on Orlando's lips, he adds,

'And let's just say, Viggo now owes me things.'

***

There is a sale going on at the local Tesco on March, 13th; it's Chinese Tuesday. As it happens, both Eric and Gerry go grocery shopping and meet each other by chance in the frozen foods section.

Both of them exit Tesco having acquired quite a few items they didn't necessarily set out to buy. Both of them present them to someone close to their heart.

In Eric's case, Viggo is absolutely delighted that he got them chopsticks and insists that they eat dinner with them. The fact that they have dinner in the cafeteria, surrounded by most of the school, and that neither French fries nor burgers are really made for chopsticks does not deter him one bit.

In Gerry's case, the recipient of the on-sale fortune cookies (20 for £6.99) is less enthusiastic, especially after glancing at the first four messages hidden inside.

'These read like a drunkard raped a typewriter,' West says dryly.

Gerry (cheeks filled with four cookies) nearly chokes on his laughter.

***

In a day and age where absolutely everyone owns a cellphone, one's phone's lockscreen has taken over the function of a locket - a chance to wear what you love close to your heart. Well, given the location of most people's phones when not in use, that should be corrected to "close to the bum and / or genitals". Which is possibly just as fitting.

Viggo's lockscreen shows a rather breathtaking picture of Meteora's monasteries at dawn. Eric's shows a photo of Viggo's very messy kitchen - put there by Viggo two weeks ago as a reminder for Eric to clean up after himself. Eric did eventually wash up, but so far he couldn't be bothered changing the lockscreen to something else.

When switched on, Sean's phone greets him with a selfie of him and Ashley at Bramall Lane - his arm around her shoulder, both of them holding a cup of beer, both of them grinning broadly.

Orlando's lockscreen is Manchester United's crest.

Anyone picking up Karl's phone will be faced with Boris pretty much poking the screen with his wet nose. The picture Beth has of him is less artistically creative and more conventional. It shows Karl on his back on Beth's couch with both his arms wrapped around Boris who lies on his chest.

The perspective of the picture Emma uses as her lockscreen coincidentally is close to Karl's, only that it's not a dog's face staring back at you from too close but three human heads squished together. The middle one belongs to Emma and the other two to her friends from her theatre group. All three of them are extremely cross-eyed and Stephen's tongue is lolling out. Much like Boris's, as it happens.

Craig's shows the vintage picture of an elephant jumping out of a monorail compartment.

***

'Hello?'

'Hey, Gerry, this is Dominic.'

'I know that. There is such a thing as caller ID.'

'Why are you whispering?'

'I'm hiding in a closet because my secret lover's husband came home.'

'Excuse me? - If that is the case, he also brought his five children with him, given the giggles I hear in the back.'

'Aye, you got me. I'm in JC's library. Me and the nature club, we're trying to find out stuff about dinosaurs.'

'And you picked up your phone?'

'I like to live dangerously, what can I say. Besides, it could've been important. You could've slipped on a banana peel in your kitchen, broken your hip and dragged yourself over to the phone to call for help. Of course I - no, Jodie. That didn't really happen. I was just trying to make a point... What do you mean "too bad"? It's never okay to wish someone would break their hip, even if that would mean you had free periods as a result. Honestly. - West, you still there?'

'Yes.'

'And you didn't break your hip?'

'No.'

'Good. You're not in any other sort of mortal danger either? Dinosaurs in your flat? Nah, that's unlikely, I know. Wait, you didn't set fire to your flat again, did you.'

'I didn't set fire to it last time!'

'That doesn't answer my question, West.'

'No, Gerry, I didn't set fire to my flat. I'm calling because I just got a parcel delivered to my address that has your name written on it.'

'Ooh, exciting!'

'You mean you don't know what it is?'

'West, you sound hellishly apprehensive there. What do you think it is? A bomb? Do you think I get bombs delivered to your house? Do you send bombs via royal mail.'

'How many of the people currently in the library are looking at you right now?'

'What? Oh, none. I retired to the loo.'

'Which makes it only marginally better. So, you don't know anything about this parcel with your name on it?'

'Oh, of course I do. It's a box full of old Lego.'

'Why?'

'Because Lego is belter. I thought we agreed on that.'

'Why did I get it?'

'Ah, I see your point. Yeah, I bought this on eBay and then I remembered that stuff gets lost in JC a lot and I didn't want to risk it.'

'Oh.'

'What do you mean, "oh".'

'That's actually a reasonable explanation.'

'And?'

'I wasn't prepared for that.'

'You're a laugh, mate.'

'Do you want me to give it to you in school tomorrow?'

'Are you kidding me? I'm gonna drop by later and we'll try it out.'

'We are?'

'Absolutely. In the meantime, buy alcohol. We can even listen to Mayer if you want to.'

'Mahler.'

'We could also listen to John Mayer.'

'We most certainly couldn't.'

***

Dom and Orlando just make it to Leeds / Bradford in time for their flight because traffic was a nightmare (of course it was), and Dom had forgotten to fill up on petrol, so they had to make a pit stop. They don't really have any luggage anyway, so it's straight through security checks, and Dom saved them from an in depth cavity search (in all honesty, he gets airport security's scepticism. He looks shifty and Orlando looks like a psychopath) by flirting with the personel. Orlando says that his idiotic pick up lines had nothing to do with it, but Dom has stopped listening to Orlando in 1991, after that infamous bathtub incident.

They were the last people to board the plane and Orlando's seat creaked not all that reassuringly when he sat down, but that merely got him to raise his brow half a millimeter; he must be in a good mood.

Dom fastens his seatbelt and since he booked them the cheapest flight he could find, of course his seat is so narrow that he elbows Orlando in the ribs. 

'No idea why I let you talk me into this,' Orlando growls.

'This was your idea, idiot,' Dom replies with a broad smile.

Ah, Amsterdam.

***

[17/3/18, 3:05 p.m.]

“Hi, this is the voicemail of Sean Bean. Feel free to leave a message after the beep or call again later, in case of emergency, please call Jackson College under 01904 667700.”

'Hi Sean, this is Dom. Pick up your phone. - - - Pick up. - - - Pickuppickuppickup. - - - Okay, shit.'

[17/3/18, 3:16 p.m.]

“Hi, this is the voicemail of Sean Bean. Feel free to leave a message after the beep or call again later, in case of emergency, please call Jackson College under 01904 667700.”

'Hi Sean, Dom again. Pick up now. - - - Fuck. - - -'

[17/3/18, 3:20 p.m.]

“Hi, this is the voicemail of Sean Bean. Feel free to leave a message after the beep or call again later, in case of emergency, please call Jackson College under 01904 667700.”

'Me again. Seriously, what is the point of having a phone if you don't pick up? Anyway, the reason why I am calling. You know Lando and I are in Amsterdam at the moment, right? He told you, right? Of course he did. 

'Anyway, we went to this museum this morning because Lando is an idiot who thinks it's fun to stare at old vases and shit like that, and then we went to a coffee shop and you know had "coffee" after which I got Lando to buy trainers with me. Not that I need help picking out shoes, I am not five years old. Even though the ones I bought have velcro, which is awesome. Lando bought shoes as well. You may guess the colour. Yeah, and after that we went for "coffee" again. And for coffee. And lunch. 

'After that things kinda went downhill because two streets down from the coffee shop, Lando spotted a used books store and dragged me into that. And that thing was huge, man, two stories below and so dingy and damp, like you were in Erebor's boiler room or something. And dark. Anyway, Lando was busy wanking over some books or something, and I went searching for comic books in the darkest corner of that place, and I kinda must've nodded off. 

'So, next thing I know, is I wake up and a kid is screaming at me cause it thought I was dead. Anyway. I went looking for Lando, but I couldn't find him anywhere. And I tried calling him about fifty times and then I realized that that's no good cause he left his phone at our hotel this morning and has been bitching about it ever since. 

'So, yeah, I lost Lando. Has he called you by any chance? Cause I spotted a couple of phone booths here, believe it or not, and I know for a fact that the only number he knows by heart is that of Wellesley because you made us learn that, like, decades ago. So uh, give me a ring if you hear from him, all right? I'm outside again, near one of the grachten things, next to this building with the kinda funny shape, and there are about fifty-thousand bikes around me, and there is a bridge and - oh, wait... - LANDO! OI! OVER HERE, YOU COMPLETE MUPPET! - Never mind, Sean, found him.'

***

Amsterdam, March, 18th, 2018

Dear Bernie,

I stole this card from Orlando who bought it for Sean for some reason (the reason is: He is a fucking walking cliché and sends postcards from a two day trip), and just in case he manages to steal it back (I doubt it. He is very, very let's-call-it-mellow right now), I will render it useless for him by writing to you. I can't remember your actual address, so I'll have to send this to JC and have our wonderful secretary Mr Freeman deliver it to you. MARTIN, STOP READING OTHER PEOPLE'S MAIL! Due to that and the lack of space (this is worse thatn Twitter!), I can't get into detail re: what made this trip great. Please feel free to ask me in person the next time you see me. Just this much: Out of the five pictures on the back, we managed to do three things (one of them extensively, another one accidentally, the third one because Lando lost a bet against me). In conclusion: We should totally book our next class trip here!

Greetings, Dom

***

At some point in the mid 80s, Bernard was at the wrong place at the wrong time. This is how one gets assigned for projects in Jackson College. He doesn't deny that - as the head of the English department - there are certain qualifications he brings to the job in question. Being chief editor of Jackson's official school brochure naturally has a lot to do with words and stuff.

However, over the decades, Bernard's repeated suggestions to radically change and naturally improve said pamphlet have fallen on deaf ears or, in Christopher's case, very furrowed brows.

So when it comes to "The ABC of Jackson College", there are two versions in existence. One - the boring version that Ian constantly bullies Bernard into printing. And two - the version that Bernard would write.

This is version two:

**A - Arnor House**

Arnor House is Jackson College's second largest house, and it is very easy to locate because it is adjacent to the cricket pitch. It is Bernard's favourite house. Not so much because of the cricket. It must be said that this is much to the head of house's annoyance, over the last years Jackson's best players did not come from Mirkwood but from Palm House whose head does little to nothing to promote the sport in her house. Life is terribly unfair sometimes.

No, Arnor House is Bernard's favourite because he is friends with the head who (unlike other people) is open to brilliant suggestions as to how to improve one's house. This is the reason why there is a bi-anual pyjama Saturday in Arnor House and why Arnor is also the only one of Jackson's six houses that has a wine cellar. The latter is located in the basement, naturally, and previously stored things such as sleighs and old cricket bats. Now it is locked and has a rather beautifully drawn sign at the door reading 'Chamber of Dionysian Delight'. Rumours, undoubtedly spread by Mirkwooders, that this is the entrance to a sex dungeon, are not true.

**B - Bowling**

Bowling is not and never has been a sport that one can actively pursue in Jackson College. It is also the one sport that is officially banned from school premises. If you were to start a bungee jumping club from the roof of the main building, that would be ill advised because you would probably smash into one of the oak trees, but it wouldn't be illegal.

The reason why bowling of all things has been officially banned since 1997 is that this was the year when the lower sixers acquired bowling balls and repurposed the main building's second floor. After one enthusiastically thrown ball tumbled down the staircase and took Marsters, the janitor, with it, the school board thought it prudent to take drastic measures.

**C - Crest**

Personally, Bernard thinks Jackson's official school crest is a thing of beauty. Other people think differently, and one would easily find a majority if one suggested that the elements on the crest look like a blind person picked them from a garage sale of a mental institution. Bernard would absolutely agree with that assessment which is why it is so beautiful.

Several attempts have been made to re-design the crest to make it look less, let's say, eccentric. All attempts ended pretty much like New Zealand's search for a new flag. In the official school brochure Bernard would deny any part in that result.

**D - Darjeeling**

Bernard is a very tolerant man. The highest result of education is tolerance after all. But even Helen Keller would agree with Bernard, were she not dead, that this stops short of the staff kitchen. He can't even look at Sean when he is sipping a mug of plebeian PG Tips.

**E - Etsy**

Jackson is not actually a school that wholeheartedly adopts the pedagogics of Maria Montessori whose idea of self-employed. Bernard, however, has always been a big fan which is not to a small degree influenced by the idea that letting them do stuff by themselves seems much less work for him. He believes that allowing them free choice of the materials, uninterrupted work, and freedom of movement and activity within the limits set by the environment will eventually grow indepedent. Also, the creative products of their works can easily be sold in Bernard's etsy shop (www.etsy.com/uk/overthehill). The profits of course are invested in new materials and waffles.

**F - Freezer**

Jackson's Cafeteria has a state-of-the-art kitchen. The cook's pride and joy is the giant walk-in freezer. It has been declared off-limits to students, however, after the Easter-Bunny-Hunt of 2012 where the designated Easter Bunny hid from his pursuers in there, accidentally locked himself in. To his credit, the hunters didn't find him. Pneumonia, however, did.

**G - Gerry**

Bernard is insanely sorry for any school that doesn't have a Gerard Butler. Frankly, he doesn't know how any educational institution copes without a 6'2'' darling with a heart the size of Scotland.

**H - Harrowgate**

According to the BBC, Harrowgate is the happiest place to live in Britain. Bernard doesn't disagree that it is quite nice, but he believes that the BBC did not take into account that this result possibly was brought on by Karl bullying half the population.

**I - Inspirational Quotes**

Bernard loves inspirational quotes and the best day in his life (no one tell Marianne that) was the one where he discovered the little poster printing shop in Harrowgate. He has eleven A1 picture frames in his classroom whose contents he changes regularly. About three quotes are always from the Bard, of course they are (‘How sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is to have a thankless child!’ is something that every child should read about 10.000 times in his time in Jackson). About half the quotes are from Bernard himself. Naturally.

**J - Jackson, Peter**

The illustrious founding father of the school named after him has a rather mediocre life story (summed up on the back of the official school brochure). Dom and Bernard have started adding a bit to history (Sean calls it lies, Dom and Bernard prefer "alternative facts"). Dom's prefered anecdote about Mr Jackson is that he had hairy feet, size 35. Bernard personally prefers the tale of how Mr Jackson not only spotted the monster of Loch Ness twice but also personally met King Kong.

**K - Keats House**

Keats House is the former name of Austen House, prior to Emma taking over. No one (including Bernard, excluding possibly Cate) exactly knows how she managed to get a house re-named that has always been named after Johnny, literatures most dramatic drama queen. Everyone definitely knows that it was Emma.

**L - Lotion**

Bernard heard rumours that the ladies' toilets had not only scented soap but also various hand lotions to choose from. As a member of the other half of the staff who has to make do with a limited supply of toilet paper and a window that won't shut properly, he is still trying to find out to whom he needs to address his angry letter about equality here.

**M - Mirkwood**

Jackson College's Slytherin. And Bernard said that before Orlando was made head of house. Because compared to his predecessor Hugo, the current head is a Hufflepuff.

**N - Nightly excursions**

On class trips, Bernard is a big fan of them. While it is not his explicit goal to lose pupils (he differs from Dom there), he has to say that the trip to Northumberland in autumn 2013 was one of his favourites. After a long search, the rescue party discovered missing classmate Dimitri Kaschnik in the early hours of dawn. Sitting in a tree, claiming he had been chased by a wolf.

**O - Othello**

Christopher's cat. At least Bernard assumes the judgy feline sometimes lurking under Christopher's desk is his cat. If it wasn't and Christopher hadn't even noticed it's presence, Bernard would worry for Jackson. A school needs a headmaster who just has to walk into a room and instantly be able to locate any lazy and potentially destructive beings inside. Or so Bernard hears.

**P - Palm House**

Palm House is the smallest of Jackson's houses and a bit of an oddity. While the house itself wasn't exactly a gardening shed or the green house of a turn-of-the-century eccentric, Bernard insists that the spirit behind that is still where it originated and from where the house got its name.

Whereas all other houses as well as the main building all are definitely variations of the Edwardian era and designed by someone either with an unhealthy possibly sexual fixation on or a good under-the-counter deal on bricks, Palm is the exception. If Bernard were to choose an architectural style of which he is reminded every time he walks past, then it probably is the crystal palace, only more inhabitable and not with as many wild birds flying around. 

What it lacks in airborne wildlife it makes up for in actual palms in every corner of the house. Some nasty voices (Orlando and Dom, both when they were pupils as well as now) claim that this is because Palm has no boys' loos and the male inhabitants have to relieve themselves against potted plants. Bernard of course knows for a fact that this isn't true, but he never actually corrects any pupil who claims that this is a fact.

**Q - Quantum Mechanics**

Quantum mechanics is a subject not officially on Jackson's curriculum. Bernard can't say that he is particularly pained about it (unlike sadly unrepresented subjects such as sport fishing and coal mining), mostly because he has only a very vague idea of what quantum mechanics actually means. However, he does have a better understanding of it than Gerry. He and Dominic West had an hour long conversation about it that went with a lot of sighing (Dominic) and wild gesturing (Gerry). At the end of it, it turned out that while Dominic was talking about quantum mechanics, Gerry was actually referring to "Quantum Leap", the tacky 80s tv show about time travel. Incidentally, time travel is yet another subject sadly missing from Jackson's curriculum.

**R - Religion**

Bernard is not going to touch that subject, not with a ten feet pole. The one thing he will say about it us that anyone not supporting Manchester United is a heathen and should be exiled. Possibly to one of those South American countries whose football clubs Viggo fancies.

**T - Tea**

At 6.30 p.m., every night, tea is served at the main hall. 'Served' obviously being a euphemism for 'a pack if adolescent wolves an hyenas raids the cafeteria and the kitchen staff every day can consider themselves lucky that so far there has been no reported case of cannibalism in Jackson, else they wouldn't be safe either'.

Each of the six houses also has an individual kitchen for, say tea 2.0, and in every house there are different systems at work.

In Palm House, the head if house's husband likes cooking meat-centric dishes every week, and everyone is invited to join and cook and eat with him.

Generations of first year Wellies have been introduced to the fine art of sarnie-making around the first week of every school year and after that Sean just lets everyone fend fir themselves. Every other week he bellows at his whole house about the state of the kitchen.

Bernard had no reliable data for Erebor Manor since Miranda took over from John. But judging by John's often and vocally voiced love for food in all variations, Miranda has big shoes to fill. Or pots and pans, as it were.

Austen House is the only house that has an official dining room with a very large oak table in its center. Cooking together isn't as regular an occurrence as it is in Palm House, but Emma has invited Bernard over a couple of times and he spent half of the evening marvelling at how not only ten of Emma's kids managed to create an actually edible five course meal but also knew how to use cutlery and make decent dinner conversation.

Viggo regularly voices his jealousy over such lovely a tradition as that of Austen House and says that he has no idea why he hasn't been able to install something similar in Arnor House. As a person who repeatedly has been subjected to Viggo's eclectic cooking, Bernard has some idea as to why that is.

Surprisingly, it is Mirkwood that has the most liberal policy when it comes to using the common kitchen. That dates back to Hugo's times. His rule of allowing anyone in fifth form and above free reign of the kitchen as long as it is left spotless afterwards has not been touched by Orlando. Neither have the draconic punishments if said standard of cleanliness is not meet every evening at eight. Bernard is not completely sure, but he thinks it was Orlando, nit Hugo, who started the neat cookbook / box with A5 sized cards containing realistic recipes.

**U - Usher**

Jackson hasn't got a school hymn. Bernard doesn't really know why the founding fathers / mothers didn't pick one to go with the crest, but fact is, they didn't. Administration's last attempt to install one dates back to 2004 when Ian convinced Christopher to hold a school-wide poll to find possible songs to choose from. Unfortunately it was at the same time that a sudden and rather surprising R&B hysteria hit Jackson. Christopher flat-out refused to choose between Usher's "Confessions" and his and Alicia Keys "My Boo". 

**V - Vendetta**

Vendettas (played down by calling them "prank wars", but Bernard teaches English and likes to call things by their proper name) exist between the following houses / people:

Mirkwood vs. Wellesley; mostly when the Blades get relegated again and some people begrudge other people, who were wiser in their choice of football club, their success

Mirkwood vs. Arnor / Orlando vs. Viggo; think of it as Montague vs. Capulet, only without the accidental double suicide at the end of it because 'life is too beautiful to waste it' / 'Killing myself wouldn't be rational, I don't give a fuck about what he does though'

Erebor vs. Austen; which is the oldest one of them all and no one can remember how it came about actually

Martin, the school secretary, vs. Ian; which baffles everyone. Possibly it has something to do with that staff hiking trip where Martin got attacked by an angry eagle

**X - marks the spot**

With Easter right in front of them, Bernard is both happy and disappointed that he and Marianne don't live on school grounds. He is happy because like every other Christian holiday, the chances are much higher that one accidentally gets trapped in one of those discussions that Orlando thinks of as sport and other people (Viggo) decidedly don't.

On the other hand, there has been some sort of truce brokered mostly thanks to Gerry and his childlike mind. Whereas not even the greatest atheist on the planet can really say that an Easter egg hunt really perpetuates Christian values, Gerry's idea to turn this into a proper that treasure hunt has Ian (of all people) as giddy as a first former.

Bernard really wants to see how that will play out.

**Y - Yorkshire**

Home.

**Z - Zero**

The number Bernard would pick if asked how much he regrets his choice of profession on a scale of one to ten. Well, maybe 0.1. It us a nuisance to only be able to go on holiday during the school holidays. So needlessly pricey.

***

Viggo opens his eyes. He has not really been sleeping, but Eric once joked that the Falcon's quiet purring and the steady movement of the car had the same calming effect on him as rumbling washing machines have on babies. 

'How do you know stuff about babies?' he asks. 'You think they meditate as well?'

Eric doesn't take his eyes off the road but hums questioningly.

'What babies?'

Viggo hums back - never mind - and over his sock-clad feet, propped against the dashboard, he looks at the road.

'Where are we?'

Eric doesn't answer because just that moment a road sign comes into view. Northumberland.

The sun outside lets Viggo know that it's about three in the afternoon and Arnor's house mother is in Ireland, visiting family. At some point Eric will have to turn around and they will have to head back to JC. For the moment, though, Viggo looks out the window at unfamiliar houses, front lawns and small churches, wondering fleetingly who the people are who picked out the blue curtains, planted the rose bush, carved the large ornaments into the churches' door frames hundreds of years ago.

***

'Andrew and I were talking about summer,' Cate says and pauses.

She is silent enough for Sean to look up from the dreams in food form and look up at her. She is smiling. He shrugs, not really apologetic. If she wanted him to pay better attention, then she wouldn't have put on such an irresistible display.

'Sorry,' he says anyway. 'Go on.'

She makes a gesture at her kitchen counter.

'No, you go on,' she replies and while he immediately helps himself to a plate, she adds, 'I do know that you always turn up early for my breakfasts just so you can choose in peace.'

He hums around a piece of sausage which he already popped into his mouth. He is not going to apologize for that at least.

'Ash will be here in ten minutes or so,' he says, which will still probably be before Cate's other guests arrive.

'Oh maybe we should wait until then,' Cate suggests and at Sean's responding horrified expression, she exemplifies, ' Not with the sampling but with talking about plans for the summer holidays.'

Sean shakes his head and licks grease from his lips.

'No, you're all right. She is going to India with a couple of friends in July, so I reckon she won't be up for anything more than a couple of days on the coast.'

Cate nibbles on a carrot stick and leans against the counter.

'I see. Would you want to accompany us anyway? We're thinking of taking the boys to Spain for a fortnight.'

Sean shakes his head.

'Cheers but I'll pass.'

'Are you planning on re-enacting one of those "Hangover" movies instead?'

Sean stops critically inspecting the couscous salad to frown at her.

'Motorbiking with the lads,' she says and both of them smile at the hint of mockery in her voice. Sean also suspects she already has some idea what his response will be, but he humors her anyway.

'Haven't discussed it with them,' he says. 'Might not be as easy planning that as in previous years.'

They both know that this isn't necessarily true. While Sean indeed can't recall a summer when all three of them were in a relationship, significant others never posed a problem for Karl, Orlando or him.

'You think?' Cate asks with a smile.

Sean balances another piece of pineapple on the carefully assembled mountain on his plate.

'You would know better than I. You know just as well as I do how Karl is with Beth and it's you who claims that Richard is not just imaginary.'

Cate laughs.

'Trust me, he isn't,' she confirms with a conspiratorial smile just as the doorbell rings. She pushes herself away from the counter and as she walks towards the front door, she asks,

'So would you be interested in accompanying just me to France for a week again?'

Sean's laugh echos in the kitchen and he calls back,

'You could've just led with that, Cate.'

***

Sean lifts his brows as he climbs Mirkwood's main staircase but since Orlando shows no reaction at all to the three fifth formers passing them, Sean just nods hello and saves his questions for later.

'So,' he says once he parked his bum on Orlando's couch. 'What's up with your kids?'

He shifts his weight and pulls an uneven stack of photocopies out from under himself. He whistles through his teeth, so Orlando pokes his head through the kitchen door. He raises the papers as well as his brows questioningly, even though he knows Orlando's answer perfectly well. Orlando waves dismissively and when his head disappears again, Sean drops the photocopies onto a pile of books on the coffee table. 

'What about my kids?' Orlando calls from the kitchen, then cusses as something clatters to the floor.

Sean decides that he is gonna postpone answering until Orlando is done with their sarnies. Orlando is not the best at multitasking and Sean would rather not have shoe polish instead of chutney on his sandwich. He could of course help him out, but someone has got to keep an eye on the telly so they don't miss the beginning of Emmerdale.

Orlando comes into the room with two plates, but when Sean leans back on the couch and stretches his arm out over the backrest to receive his sarnie, Orlando stops just out of reach.

'What about my kids?' he repeats.

Sean growls, eyes on the plate. Orlando doesn't move. Sean growls again, this time it's possibly his stomach. Orlando clucks his tongue. The Emmerdale theme starts.

'For Christ's sake,' Sean grumbles. 'You know perfectly well what. Those three lasses were wearing bunny ears and one of them had a tail on her bum.'

Orlando clucks his tongue again but moves close enough for Sean to grab his plate.

'I'd rather if you didn't stare at my kids' bottoms,' he says as he sits down in his usual armchair.

Sean briefly contemplates throwing his sandwich at Orlando's head. Maybe just the pickles on it.

'They got boyfriends in Arnor,' Orlando says.

'I thought you had firm rules against fraternization.'

Orlando uses the hand that is not holding his own sandwich to flip Sean off.

'Viggo has some sort of Easter related prayer cycle or some shit tonight,' he says.

Sean knows what Viggo is doing tonight and Orlando's description of it is as far off as calling Bob Ross a teleevangelist. But Sean is not gonna point that out, is he. He isn't suicidal. So he just grunts.

'Anyway,' Orlando says as most of his attention is already drawn to what is happening in The Woolpack on the telly, 'I told them they could go if they dressed up as Mother Mary.'

'She wasn't really involved in Easter,' Sean says before he can help himself.

Orlando turns his head and the look he gives him would possibly put anyone who isn't Sean off their tea.

'I am aware of that,' Orlando says very gravely.

Sean shrugs and continues munching.

'They were bunnies, though,' he repeats.

'Surprisingly when you tell a teenage girl to dress up as a self proclaimed pregnant virgin,' Orlando says, eyes on the telly again, 'they interpret that as permission to go out as a sexualized baby animal. Go figure.'

Sean hums.

'It's like teenagers have a mind of their own, aye.'

***

Eric spots Orlando outside when he shuts his window.

'Oi, Lando,' he calls and when Orlando turns around, his heavy frown is kinda wiped away by the window cleaning rag that Eric waves.

'Morning to you as well!' Orlando calls back, even if he doesn't wave back.

'Are you going to the garage?'

Instead of replying, Orlando makes an impatient gesture at himself. Eric has to admit, his question is kinda redundant. The kinds of clothes he is wearing are hardly fitting for anything but the garage.

'Mind if I come with?' Eric asks, and when Orlando shrugs, he adds, 'Give me five minutes, come wait inside.'

Five minutes turn into eight because it's that long until Eric finds his second boot (behind a couple of potted plants that Viggo rearranged in the middle of the night). Eric half expects Orlando to be gone again. But Orlando waits for him in Arnor's hallway. With his hands buried in the pockets of his washed out cargo trousers, he studies the latest creations on Arnor's art wall.

He turns when he hears Eric coming and the contrast between him and the smiling and waving depiction of Tintin behind him couldn't be starker.

'Great, isn't it?' Eric asks, nodding at the picture that Viggo and three boys have been working on for the last couple if days as he zips up his jacket. 

Politely, Orlando gives the wall another glance.

'It's a Plymouth Belvedere,' Eric says because the car is the true star here.

Orlando hums.

'I've seen worse.'

Eric laughs.

'It's fantastic and you know it,' he says and turns towards the main entrance. 'You just don't know shit about cars.'

Orlando scoffs and follows.

'Yeah, because your fixation is both the norm and healthy.'

***

Now, Sean knows for a fact that Eric knows none of the names of the kids living at Arnor, with the exception of his cricket players and maybe his brighter A-level kids. How he tells them apart, Sean has no idea. Possibly by allotting prime numbers to them. Or possibly he just doesn't bother at all.

It makes it all the more astonishing what Sean witnesses at the local Tesco on Easter Saturday. He happens to pull into the parking lot at the same time as Eric parks JC's small bus, seating ten. Eric and six Arnorians of varying shapes, sizes and ages exit at the same time and two of the kids have already gotten hold of two of the fought-over trolleys when San and Eric get to the store.

In the time it takes Sean to decide on which biscuits to buy today (which is not that long, no matter what Orlando says), the Arnorians manage to fill both their trolleys up to the brim and arrive at check out even before Sean. There, each of them hand Eric his personal shopping list and all six unload their trolleys while Eric checks the items.

'Here, you,' Eric says and points at Thomas Mitchel, whom Sean taught history two years back. 'You forgot the cashew nuts.'

Without protesting, Thomas dashes off and is back before the cashier is done registering all the other items.

'See ya back at JC, mate,' Eric says brightly to Sean while the Arnorians already dash off towards the entrance.

Sean just raises his hand and then gets the stink eye from the cashier for dawdling.

***

Around four in the afternoon of Easter Sunday, Eric attempts to shift from his back onto his side. He manages, but the endeavour is accompanied by such a load groan that it fetches Viggo from the living room.

‘Every year, mate,’ Viggo says around a broad grin.

Eric replies with yet another groan that sounds both piti- and resentful. Viggo doesn’t stop smiling but raises his phone and takes a picture of Eric, spread-eagled and raising his right hand in a lazy but still rude gesture, before he sends it to Eric’s phone. Eric looks at it and groans again.

‘Out of all the religious traditions, this is possibly the one I loathe the most,’ he says.

Viggo snorts and sits down on the edge of the bed.

‘That is not what you said four hours ago.’

Eric groans again.

Viggo fiddles with his phone, then holds it up so Eric can see the screen. The short video shows Eric in an apron in Arnor’s kitchen, a pot in one hand and a spoon in the other, and he smiles into the camera while four kids buzz around him and there is steam coming from several of the pans on the stove.

‘I love Easter Sunday,’ past-Eric says into the camera.

‘What are we having?’ past-Viggo asks from behind the camera.

Eric stops one of the little helpers with the help of his big wooden spoon and turns him towards the camera. Lindsey Shaw looks confused only for a split-second, then she recites the entire Easter Sunday menu in an impressive speed. Behind her, Eric looks like he could burst with happiness.

‘Past me was an idiot,’ Eric judges when the video is over. He doesn’t sound very convincing, though. His right hand comes to rest on his stomach and rubs it carefully.

‘Do you want a Rennie?’ Viggo asks. ‘Or maybe two?’

Eric ignores the question for a moment in favour of humming in response to the self-administered touch therapy.

‘It was a fantastic Easter lunch, wasn’t it?’

Viggo hums and places his phone on the nightstand as he stretches out next to Eric.

‘My favourite part of the day,’ he agrees.

Eric turns his head towards him.

‘Better than church?’ he asks, a smile playing around his lips.

Viggo rolls his eyes.

‘I’m not even gonna dignify that with an answer,’ he replies without any heat at all.

Satisfied with that response, just like every year, Eric goes back to staring at the ceiling. His hand has pushed up the rim of his pullover and the t-shirt underneath and Viggo watches its gentle circling motions on Eric’s stomach. It is not really a surprise (just like every year) that the amount of food he ate now renders him practically immobile.

Eric groans quietly again and lightly pats his belly in explanation.

‘I reckon I’ll have that Rennie after all,’ he says.

Instead of getting up, Viggo reaches for his phone and types something into it. Eric watches him for a moment.

‘What are you doing?’ he then asks.

‘Research,’ Viggo replies, looking very serious. Only after a moment he looks up from his phone and points at Eric’s slightly rounded belly. ‘Not sure whether you’re allowed to take Rennie when you’re pregnant, mate.’

In response Eric barks out a laugh that quickly turns into a groan as the muscles in his stomach contract.

‘Christ, I hate Easter,’ he says, rolling onto his side and clutching his belly, as laughter still ripples through him.

***

Unfortunately Easter Sunday 2018 coincides with April Fools. The aftermath of what happens because of that stretches wide into the following Monday and includes, but isn't limited to these events:

Orlando is so furious he has difficulties finding words. As the usual keeper of the peace is an absolute persona non grata in Mirkwood at that time, it falls to Eric to engage emergency protocols. Since he really can't remember anything about Orlando's current boyfriend other than that he doesn't have horns and is possibly named Armin, the first idea to distract Orlando by setting up a date falls to pieces. Thankfully the weather is good enough that Karl agrees to invite Orlando on a spontaneous extended trip on their motorbikes, and when they return in the evening not only is Mirkwood restored to its former glory but Orlando manages to sit through tea without sticking his fork into Sean's hand.

Possibly even more tragic and alarming is what happens in Arnor House. Viggo is almost as annoyed as Orlando and for the first time in a long time the reason for his upset is not Orlando either. Different to what Eric unwillingly learned from Karl about Orlando's sexual preferences, neither Viggo nor in fact Eric are friends of blowing off steam via blow jobs or other sexual activities. Viggo also insists to stay in Arnor to supervise damage control, so Eric can't even stuff him into Karl's side car. He ends up enlisting the help of benevolent Bernard who shows up on Arnor's door step with a collection of fine red wines that demand to be tested.

Both Sean and Miranda spend a good deal of the day rather conflicted as their charges' large scale planning and execution skills secretly fill them with some amount of pride. Outwardly of course they cannot condone anything that happened on Sunday. However, when they find themselves waiting in front of Christopher's office like naughty children, it takes only one look at the other to instantly know what they are thinking.

None of this bodes well for April Fools 2019.

***

'Right, I'm off to grace West's flat with my presence,' Gerry announces after lunch.

Orlando points at the fire extinguisher that hangs next to the cafeteria's entrance.

'Better take that with you then, mate.'

Gerry snorts and shoves Orlando's shoulder hard enough for him to nearly stumble into one of the tables.

'If you're being rude, I'll tell my mother where to find you in Glasgow.'

Orlando arches an eyebrow.

'How on earth would your mother know how to find me? I already regret telling you about my trip; I'm certainly not giving you the details of my hotel.'

Polite bloke that he is, Gerry holds the door open and doesn't smack it in Orlando's face.

'Haha, but you forget who's my best mate.'

Orlando's eyes automatically drift towards the next fire extinguisher down the hall because he is a numpty.

'No matter what you claim, no one but you believes that West is a spy, so he doesn't have any connections to the NSA.'

Gerry laughs. Because Orlando does look a wee bit worried, despite his words. And also because West absolutely has NSA connections, who is Orlando kidding.

***

In hindsight, Viggo has to admit to himself that he should have been a little more clever in planning his ambush on Sean. He should maybe have gotten Cate on his side instead of bringing Bernard, who has been no use at all so far. It already was a longshot to try and convince Sean to celebrate his birthday in a hot-air balloon. For one thing, Sean is incredibly afraid of heights. For another, it is near to impossible to have a cake buffet in an hot air balloon, and Sean's obsession with cake has reached the level of a bride talking about her wedding reception. The fact that they are here in Wellesley's main common room, having a rehearsal cake breakfast, pretty much says it all.

While Viggo has wisely given up on his plans the moment he lost his comrade in arms Bernard to cherry pie, Gerry is less easily deterred.

'So, anyroad,' he says and waves his fork in front of Sean's face. 'Can I bring someone with me to your wee shindig?'

Sean for a brief moment stops - and Viggo is using this phrase very intentionally - making love to his piece of pear-and-chocolate-cake to look at Gerry with obvious scepticism.

'That depends, mate.'

'On what?'

'On whether you intend on bringing an actual human being or that horrid pony.'

Both Gerry and (to a slightly lesser degree: Eric) look offended on Al Capony's behalf but Sean doesn't take it back. In his defense it has to be said that Gerry did bring his pony to Sean's birthday party last year and Al Capony did eat Sean's favourite apple-cinnamon-pie.

'Ah, come on,' Gerry coaxes, 'He's gonna behave this year. And besides, you allow Orlando to bring his goat, don't you.'

This claim is nonsensical even for Gerry's standards, and even Bernard briefly interrupts drawing faces onto pie with his can of spray whipped cream to stare at Gerry.

'What?' Gerry asks, looking back and forth between them before his gaze settles on Viggo and he uses his fork to point at him as well. 'Viggo said he was going to.'

Viggo, upon finding everyone's eyes on himself now, raises both his hands and shakes his head.

'I have no idea what you're talking about, my friend.'

Gerry shakes his head.

'Course you do. You told me, just last week, that Orlando was gonna bring his special friend who has horns.'

'I -' Viggo starts protesting but gets interrupted by Eric whose face is alarmingly red as he has choked on a piece of rhubarb pie because he started laughing.

Sean, seated next to him, pats him on the back and gives Viggo a look that is very knowing despite Viggo's best attempt to appear innocent.

'What's this about?' Bernard asks and he, too, is now staring at Viggo. Viggo really needs better friends.

Before he can explain himself (by which he means: lie), Sean stops patting Eric and instead turns to Bernard.

'I am pretty sure Viggo meant Orlando's imaginary boyfriend.'

While Bernard merely hums knowingly, Eric shakes his head.

'He isn't imaginary, mate.'

Sean waves that aside, despite Gerry's enthusiastic nods.

'Yeah, I know, you claim to have seen him on Boxing Day. I still reckon you were both too sloshed to be reliable sources.'

Gerry actually looks like he is contemplating that, but Eric shakes his head again.

'Nah, I saw him this morning. Talked to him as well.'

Prodding his treacherous pie with his fork, it takes him a moment to notice that all eyes are on him now.

'You did?' Sean asks.

'When?' Gerry asks.

'Did he have horns?' Bernard asks.

'Yes; after I came back from my run; no,' Eric replies easily. 'He was waiting in front of Mirkwood for Orlando to finish scolding one of his kids or something. We talked about his Audi for a bit, which is a nice car. I mean, it's got nothing on the Falcon of course, and if I'd go for a German car, I'd still take a Porsche GT3 over an Audi any day. But I gotta say, for every day usage, the A5 Sportback is a decent choice. Nice body and naught to sixty in about seven seconds, that isn't bad. Well, you have to overlook the fact that he's got a Diesel, of course.'

Viggo smiles in response to the dreamy look on Eric's face, but other people in the room don't share that level of car enthusiasm.

'You talked to Richard?' Sean asks, and he looks like for the first time in the last fifty odd years he regrets not being an early riser.

'Who?' Eric asks, looking confused.

'Orlando's horny boyfriend,' Bernard provides, completely straight-faced.

Eric frowns.

'I thought his name was Mitchel?'

Sean shakes his head. Gerry shakes his head. 

'Mitchel is a pretty weird name,' Viggo says and doesn't add that this probably means that Eric should be correct. Who on earth would voluntarily date Orlando?

'It doesn't, as one might think, derive from "Michael",' Bernard says in his helpful voice, 'but most probably from the old English word for "big", which is "muchel".'

Viggo isn't sure whether that is true but no one else seems to be bothered about that. Eric shrugs.

'He isn't. Big, I mean. Neither horizontally nor vertically. About my height. And has no idea about cricket,' he adds because it's important. 'I checked.'

Both Viggo and Bernard nod their understanding while Sean is still shaking his head. Gerry concludes that this bit of the conversation is over, helps himself to a piece of cheesecake and drags the conversation back to its original topic.

'Aye, anyroad, I'll be bringing West then, mate.'

Sean is making a face as if he just found himself in Viggo's hot-air balloon. It is quite amusing.

***

‘Ya want anything else?’

The waitress’s tone is bordering on rude, and it’s more that than her words that immediately captures Orlando’s attention. His brows automatically furrow and he pointedly doesn’t look at her but at Richard on the other side of the table. He, too, must’ve heard it, but there is none of Orlando’s irritation on his face.

Instead there is quiet amusement in his eyes as he looks at Orlando, brows arching minutely in a silent question.

Orlando raises one shoulder.

‘Another coffee?’

Richard’s smile changes into one that is both a little broader and less genuine as he looks up at the waitress and adds his own order to Orlando’s. She shuffles back to the counter where obviously gossiping takes precedence over anything else.

Orlando shakes his head and finds Richard watching him.

‘Well, but at least the coffee is pretty decent,’ Richard says.

Orlando drinks Tesco’s own instant coffee at home, so he’s really not gonna weigh in on this. Instead the ‘Guardian’ that Richard brought with him catches his attention. He blinks when he finds that Richard seems to be almost done with it; several sections have been neatly folded and put aside. He glances at his watch and blinks again, slightly astonished.

‘We’ve been here for an hour.’

Richard’s gaze flickers to the large clock on the wall, and there is a flash of surprise in his eyes as well.

That happens sometimes. Orlando is in the middle of reading when the ideas on the page trigger something. He stares at the ceiling for an unspecific amount of time while he follows that initial thought to see where it takes him. Sean once compared it to Alice following the white rabbit. It’s annoying that he keeps remembering that comparison because it’s wonky on so many levels and Sean mostly just used it because he knew it would piss Orlando off.

‘So we have,’ Richard says, only a little belatedly, and leans back in his chair. ‘You’d rather we left? We could still cancel our order.’

They could do that. Could go back to the posh hotel on West Regent Street, again make use of the bed and its fancy linens (and honestly, what kind of hotel puts the thread-count of their linens onto their website). They also could give one of Glasgow’s art museums a go, since all they have done today is visit a cemetery.

But Orlando shakes his head.

‘Nah, I’m good for a while longer if you are.’

Richard’s responding smile is confirmation enough.

‘Do you mind if I -’ he starts and slightly raises the paper to finish the question. Orlando isn’t too good at reading upside down, but from what he gathers from the headline Richard is in the middle of an article about the gender wage gap.

Again Orlando shakes his head.

‘We came here for some time to read, didn’t we?’

It’s pretty much verbatim what Richard suggested when they left the historical cemetery, and Richard nods and goes back to reading his article. 

Even on a trip, he prefers the printed word, seems to enjoy the haptic experience of actual newspaper and treats his books (all hardcovers, all in pristine condition) with great care. Most of Orlando’s reading takes place online. But for the last seventy minutes, his phone has been lying untouched on the table.

Ever since they passed Thomas Reid’s monument on Glasgow’s Necropolis, he’s been contemplating Scottish enlightenment. In his mind, he dissected Reid’s reasoning for God given common sense as they exited the cemetery, questioned his contribution to action theory until Richard lightly touched his arm because the traffic light switched to green. He stared unseeingly at the display of newspapers while Richard picked up his ‘Guardian’ as one of Reid’s propositions on language popped up in his mind (‘There is no greater impediment to the advancement of knowledge than the ambiguity of words’ - talk about the glass being half empty). He smiled and nodded and followed when Richard suggested coffee.

Their refill still hasn’t arrived at their table, and the world’s worst waitress is currently busy applying lip gloss onto her permanently down-turned lips. Richard is engrossed in his article once more, the minute change of his expression the only indication of his apparent approval.

Orlando remembers ordering his first coffee and some cake or other, but as he tries to reconstruct his thoughts from then on, he fails. His right hand holds a cheap Biro, idly toying with it, but it’s more a surrogate for a cigarette than a writing instrument; he hasn’t even jotted down a single word. He waits for the flash of annoyance that is bound to follow - he is indeed like stupid Alice, mindlessly wandering around a nonsensical labyrinth. What’s the point of contemplation if at the end there is no clarity? But the frustration doesn’t come.

His eyes follow the steady motion of Richard’s as they read. Much slower than Orlando himself, much less impatient, very possibly much more thorough. He holds the paper with both hands, his right thumb moves in miniature circles; unconsciously caressing the words it covers.

Thomas Reid doesn’t make it onto Orlando’s list of top ten philosophers who should be shot in the head; he enjoys his libertarian views and some of his thoughts on language too much for that. Maybe that’s the reason why right now, he can’t seem to be arsed to pick up the threads of his interrupted thoughts. Maybe it’s because of this that it doesn’t even bother him.

‘There ya go.’

A new coffee cup is put down onto the table in front of him. Some of its content sloshes over the rim and onto the saucer. The same happens with Richard’s. The shitty waitress at least deserves points for consistency.

‘A colleague of mine is from round here,’ Orlando says, once she has turned her back to them and Richard’s laughing eyes look at him. ‘He claims that Glasgow has been voted the friendliest city in the world.’

Richard hides his smile behind his cup, and he licks a trace of coffee from his upper lip before he replies.

‘Well, the coffee is all right.’

Orlando chuckles.

‘That’s setting the bar pretty low, mate.’

Richard doesn’t argue, just sips from his cup again, his left hand resting on the folded up newspaper. He keeps looking at Orlando, though, and there are things he isn’t saying, doesn’t need to say because they are inarguably true. Orlando doesn’t give a shit about poor customer service, of course he doesn’t, and it’s not just the coffee that is all right (much more than that). He feels his lips curving into a smile.

‘What would you like to do next?’

***

[Whatsapp, 6/4/2018]

Orlando [11:15 a.m.]: ?

Sean [11:32 a.m.]: All quiet on the Western front

Orlando [2:36 a.m.]: Southern

Orlando [2:36 p.m.]: We're in Scotland 

Sean [3:12 p.m.]: Speaking of: When will you be back on Saturday?

Orlando [6:20 p.m.]: Noon

Orlando [6:20 p.m.]: Why?

Sean [6:21 p.m.]: I need someone to help supervising the footie match on Saturday afternoon 

Orlando [6:21 p.m.]: I can do that

Sean [6:23 p.m.]: Gerry was gonna do it, but I'm not sure he's going to make it. The match. I didn't mean he is going to die. But he fell of a horse and spent last night in hospital, getting checked for concussion

Orlando [9:12 p.m.]: I'd like to see that brain scan

***

Liv is back from her holiday on Saturday, around noon. She is not in the best of moods when her brother pulls up right in front of JC's main building. For one, school starts again on Monday and that's the exact opposite of sick. For another, the sun is shining in Yorkshire, yeah, but it has nothing on the sun on the Maldives. Also, Jake, her brother's stupid husband, has been annoying the shit out of her throughout the flight back by making her calculate the odds of them surviving a plane crash and sussing out the trajectory or whatever of the plane falling out of the sky. Fine, Danny's pained expression was kinda hilarious but Liv really has other ways to annoy her brother than having to do maths on her frigging holiday.

Anyway, the only good thing about the drive from Leeds airport back to JC was that Danny was behind the wheel and was in charge on picking the music, and his taste is way less horrible than Jake's. Also, Liv spent most of it instagramming with Mo and that was kinda fun.

'If you ace that upcoming maths test,' Jake says as he forces one of his gorilla-arms-hugs on her, 'I'll pay half of that new phone you want.'

Liv pushes him off of her, because seriously, but still can't help but grin at him. 

Danny stops grumbling about having to unload her stuff all on his own (which is fair enough because that is what is happening) and gestures her to come over, so he, too, can embarrass her with a hug. He smells of airplane sweat and Liv is of a mind to tell him to borrow Jake's aftershave next time, but thankfully remembers in time that that might sound like she approves of Jake's taste. So she keeps her mouth shut and suffers through her brother trying to break her backbone.

'If you score a hattrick this afternoon,' he says when he finally releases her, 'I'll give ya half the money for the Galaxy S8.'

Really, grown ups.

Liv briefly calculates the odds of having to pay zero pounds for a sweet new phone (she did play with Danny pretty much every day while Jake was lazing about on the beach and cooking way too fancy four course dinners and shit like that; and she isn't too bad at guessing which kinda test questions Mr Bana is giving out). Meanwhile, Jake and Danny drive off, Jake behind the wheel now which means Liv's brother is gonna have to suffer through hours of Taylor Swift. They must've started bickering about that already because Jake is obviously distracted and nearly crashes into a grey A5 that comes through the gate. 

Liv throws her holdall over her shoulder and just the spots Susa on the gravel path and waves her over to help with her suitcase. The big clock on the main building's front switches to twelve as she and Susa drag her things to her house, and while Susa fills her in on the recent drama in her life (she has broken up with that prat Ashley last night which, good for her), Liv is on the lookout for Mr Bean. Not like she missed him or anything (because ew), but she needs to convince him to put her in the line up against Nottingham Comprehensive this afternoon.

She really needs that new S8.

***

[Text Message, 4/8/2018)

Dominic West [3:15 p.m.]: Hello Gerry. I couldn't reach you earlier and there are rumours about an accident. Am I right to assume that you are alive? Greetings, Dominic

[Dominic's phone, ringing, 3:17 p.m.]

'Yes?'

'WEST, I AM ALIVE!'

'Hello Gerry. There really is no need to shout.'

'YOU CARE ABOUT ME!'

'Again, I don't see why that needs to be shouted.'

'BECAUSE - because, have you watched no movie in, ever, mate?'

'I think we watch different kinds of movies.'

'Right, right. You probably only watch 007. To laugh at his ineptitude.'

'Excuse me?'

'Anyroad, I am alive. Will you go to Sean's birthday with me?'

'Is that a trap?'

'What? How?'

'Because if it is, its execution is not bad.'

'Thank you? Not sure what you're on about, but I'll take it.'

'I read online that you fell off a horse; the symptoms of a concussion are not seldomly slight confusion and nonsensicalness. Which in your case -'

'First of, how is that on the internet? Wait, no need to answer. I know. Is your real last name Snowden?'

'Facebook.'

'Your last name is Facebook? Weird.'

'I read it on Facebook.'

'Ah. Secondly, you are misinformed.'

'So there was no accident?'

'Oh, there was, West.'

'But not one involving a horse.'

'No, there was a horse as well. His name is Ninja and he is a wee miniature horse.'

'So, you didn't fall off it?'

'No, over.'

'What?'

'See, it was like this: I was lesson prepping the other evening -'

'Which means you were watching old episodes of QI?'

'Naturally. Anyway, I was lesson prepping and I learned that instead of a dog, you could also use a miniature horse. For leading the blind, I mean. So I put that to the test the next day and -'

'You also volunteered to be the blind man and hence didn't see the horse.'

'Exactly. You got there much quicker than the doctors in the hospital.'

'I presume that is because I spent more time with you than they did.'

'Aye, speaking of time, do you have any to buy something for Sean's birthday? Because I don't think he wants a bomb for his birthday. He is boring like that.'

***

Viggo is reading up on cricket results when his phone starts vibrating in his hand, announcing a call. For a split-second he finds that very weird, especially since Eric is sitting next to him on the couch, one hand holding a bottle of beer the other the remote; so it's definitely not him. Then he remembers that this was what phones are actually for and picks up.

'Hello?'

'Hello Viggo, it's Kiele,' a female voice on the other hand replies.

'Hi Kiele,' Viggo replies, mostly for Eric's sake whose mild interest immediately returns to "Bondi Rescue". 'How are you?'

'Good mostly. Except that my house is missing something?'

'I can't believe that; a charming head of house, the best cricket players and brilliant mathematicians, you got the lot.'

He hears Kiele's chuckle, but her tone of voice remains cool as usual.

'Thank you. We'd still like our palms back.'

Viggo's brows draw together out of their own volition. 

'What palms?'

Again, Kiele chuckles.

'I'll call you back in five minutes. I suggest you check out your common room in the meantime. And if you should run into the kidnappers, you can tell them that their demands are ridiculous.'

Eric doesn't even glance up at him when Viggo gets up and slides his phone into the back pocket and walks out, leaving the door to Eric's flat open. He does arch one eyebrow when five minutes later, they nearly bump into one another; Eric with a fresh bottle of beer, Viggo cradling a miniature potted palm to his chest. He pushes said finding into Eric's free hand when his phone happens to ring at exactly that moment.

'Hello again,' Viggo says and before Kiele can say anything, he continues, 'They should be back at Palm House in the next minute, if you'd just leave the door ajar for them.'

Kiele hums.

'That was surprisingly easy.'

'Hm yeah,' Viggo says, thinking of the crestfallen look on Younes Akhabah's and Kevin Felton's faces when he told them that they had to water all twenty palms thrice a day in different intervals.

'Listen, you mind if I keep the tiny one?' He asks, looking lovingly at the little tree that Eric still holds against his chest. 'I still have some Christmas decorations lying around.'

This time Kiele full on laughs.

'Knock yourself out.'

***

Y3B won’t remember anything about religious fanatism and witch-hunts in the late Middle Ages. This doesn’t mean that they didn’t pay attention to their teacher. On the contrary.

As it is a fine spring morning, Mr M decides to open the windows to his classroom at about 9:20. At exactly 9:27, an uninvited but (if anyone asked Y3B) very welcome visitor uses one of those openings as an invitation to come in. Delighted squeaks from the front seats wake the boys in the last row who had drifted off into their usual Religious Education slumber. 

Mr Lee’s grey cat gracefully hops onto the window sill and gives the room and its occupants a swift once over while wearing an expression that easily matches the co-headmaster’s for habitual disdain. Then it jumps onto Mr M’s desk and walks straight across his papers to look at him as if it was sent by OFSTED. 

Mr M smiles and gathers the feline up in his arms. His intention is to bring it back to the window and suggest it should leave and put the concept of carpe diem to a test outside. 

The cat, however, has other ideas. 

The class laughs in delight when cat and teacher engage in a short wrestling match which the cat wins. It drapes itself over Mr M’s shoulder, looking like the scornful impression of a fur coat’s collar, and makes it very clear that it intend to defends its new-found spot. After getting slapped in the face by a paw and a tail, Mr M surrenders and continues his lesson on stereotypes of witches with an evil cat on his shoulder.

***

[Whatsapp, 13/4/2018]

Sean [9:34 p.m.]: ?

Orlando [9:36 p.m.]: Seriously? You’ve been gone for seven hours max

Orlando [9:36 p.m.]: What on earth could have happened in that time?

Sean [9:36 p.m.]: ???????????

Orlando [9:36 p.m.]: Fuck, you’re annoying, even when you’re not even in the country

Orlando [9:36 p.m.]: Where did Ashley take you anyway?

Sean [9:37 p.m.]: Stockholm

Orlando [9:37 p.m.]: And?

Sean [9:38 p.m.]: It’s great. We went to a fantastic restaurant, and we’ll be taking a stroll back to the hotel now.

Orlando [9:38 p.m.]: Stop right there. I don’t want to know about the rest of your plans for the evening

Sean [9:39 p.m.]: THEN ANSWER MY BLOODY QUESTION!

Orlando [9:39 p.m.]: Fuck you

Orlando [10:16 p.m.]: Everything is all right at your house. I’ve just been over there and your house mother will happily confirm that if you don’t believe me. One of the second formers (Frederick Nottingham) had a massive nosebleed around tea and dripped all over the ground level hallway, but he and his mates told me that this happens sometimes and that they didn’t get into a fight. Everything else is normal

Orlando [10:16 p.m.]: Watching “Nightmare on Elm Street” rn, so I should be up for another couple of hours, just in case

Orlando [10:16 p.m.]: Karl says hi

Sean [11:31 p.m.]: [ghost emoji, thumbs up emoji]

Orlando [11:32 p.m.]: Muppet

***

[14/4/2018, 4:04 p.m.]

'Hi. This is Richard Armitage. I can't answer the phone right now, but if you want you can leave a message and I'll call you back. Cheers.'

'Hiya, mate, it's Orlando. I'm calling because of Tuesday. Sean's amazing birthday bash, remember? That's the official title, in case you wondered, though I really have no clue why it would deserve that adjective. He's just doing dinner in a pub. Anyway, I have to be in York around four to pick up Dom's car about three miles from your house. He's having it resprayed in the most obnoxious green, and I owe him a couple of favours since Amsterdam. Long story short, I could pick you up, leave my BMW at yours and we could drive to Harrogate in Dom's car, if you want. We could take a cab back to yours after Sean's thing, or you could go back with Cate and I'll pick up my BMW some other time; whatever. No worries if you made other arrangements or just would not want to be seen dead in a green Scirocco. I'd very much understand the latter, actually. Dom is an idiot. - Yeah, so, let me know, all right?'

[14/3/2018, Whatsapp]

Richard [10:47 p.m.]: Sorry I couldn't answer my phone earlier.

Richard [10:47 p.m.]: I'm in Leicester, actually, my dad's not well.

Richard [10:48 p.m.]: I think I'll be back tomorrow, though, so count me in for Tuesday.

Richard [10:48 p.m ]: I'm looking forward to finally meeting Sean.

Richard [10:49 p.m.]: And I actually made arrangements at work for Wednesday and won't have to leave for work before 10 a.m.

Richard [10:50 p.m.]: Happy to have you stay over!

Richard [10:50 p.m ]: I should be back from work around five Tuesday and be good to around around 5:30.

Richard [10:51 p.m.]:Would that work for you?

Richard [10:54 p.m.]: Sorry that this sounds a bit rushed 

Richard [10:54 p.m.]: Am still at the hospital and it's been a long day

Orlando [11:00 p.m.]: Absolutely called for, apologizing for messaging style when talking to me

Orlando [11:00 p.m.]: ffs, Richard

Orlando [11:01 p.m.]: Leicester, though, not Leeds?

Orlando [11:01 p.m.]: Hospital, I mean

Orlando [11:04 p.m.]: Tuesday - Sean wants people to be there around seven, we'd have to leave around half six, so there's no need to rush

Orlando [11:04 p.m.]: Wednesday - I got the morning off actually, my classes are on a field trip to Hadrian's Wall

Richard [11:06 p.m.]: Sorry.

Richard [11:06 p.m.]: Leicester, yes. 

Richard [11:06 p.m.]: I'm waiting for my dad to get back from radiology.

Richard [11:07 p.m.]: Kidney stone, I think.

Richard [11:08 p.m.]: Half six Tuesday sounds great, as does the prospect of being able to spend Wednesday morning in bed with you.

Orlando [11:09 p.m.]: Fyi, I think I just scared the fuck out of 1/4th of Wellesley

Orlando [11:10 p.m.]: Sean's house. He's away for the weekend, I am doing last rounds rn

Orlando [11:10 p.m.]: It's all peace and quiet and I bloody laughed out loud

Orlando [11:10 p.m.]: Kidney stones - and then you talk about shagging in the next fucking message

Orlando [11:10 p.m.]: You're really nailing this phone sex thing tonight, mate

Richard [11:11 p.m.]: Bizarre change of topic, I'll give you that.

Richard [11:12 p.m.]: Also bizarre if kidney stones is what you're hoping for. 

Orlando [11:12 p.m.]: Benign, aren't they

Orlando [11:13 p.m.]: Only logical to hope for that 

Richard [11:14 p.m.]: Indeed. 

Richard [11:14 p.m.]: Not knowing all the stuff I know about truly unpleasant conditions probably would make it a little easier to sit here and wait right now.

Orlando [11:15 p.m.]: Lack of knowledge doesn't reduce fear, it increases it

Orlando [11:17 p.m.]: Sorry. I'm not good at this

Orlando [11:17 p.m.]: I hope you get the results soon and they'll be good

Richard [11:18 p.m.]: Thanks.

Richard [11:18 p.m.]: Appreciate it.

Richard [11:18 p.m.]: Sorry got to go

Orlando [11:18 p.m.]: Sure

Orlando [11:18 p.m.]: See you Tuesday

[15/3/2018 - Whatsapp]

Richard [1:27 a.m.]: You're probably in bed already now?

Richard [1:27 a.m.]: It indeed turned out to be a kidney stone.

Richard [1:28 a.m.]: He has to stay the night, but will be just fine once he's passed it.

Richard [1:28 a.m.]: Quite relieved.

Richard [1:29 a.m.]: Now I just need to calm my mum.

Richard [1:30 a.m.]: I hope you had a good evening despite having to work.

Richard [1:30 a.m.]: I'm looking forward to seeing you Tuesday!

Richard [1:31 a.m.]: I'll text you when I'm leaving work, alright?

Orlando [1:53 a.m.]: You do that

Orlando [1:53 a.m.]: I'll stop by Argos on the way back from the auto shop anyway; tell me if you want anything

Orlando [1:53 a.m.]: Like a five pack of t-shirts for example 

Orlando [1:53 a.m.]: Good night now 

Richard [1:54 a.m.]: I'm laughing way too hard now. 

Richard [1:54 a.m ]: Cheers.

Richard [1:55 a.m.]: Sleep tight.

***

Fifteen random things that happen in Jackson College on April, 15th, 2018:

1 - Orlando oversleeps by ten minutes and is almost late for breakfast. That is not because he only turned out the lights at around two, but because he spent the time till then reading Freud and it gave him nightmares.

2 - Eric and his team play cricket and for the first time in God knows how long, they didn't have to abort half way through because of rain.

3 - Viggo takes 154 pictures of leaves with his phone.

4 - Gerry visits what he later insists is a bee museum (it probably isn't) and returns to JC around noon with (surprisingly) zero bee stings and (unsurprisingly) around two litres of honey.

5 - Dom sends Orlando 15 text messages to remind him of the favours Orlando owes him. He uses emoticons only and Orlando wants to throw his phone into the pond.

6 - Aisling O'Rourke falls into said pond when trying to take a selfie with Miranda's ducks in the background.

7 - Erebor has water problems. Again. By this point, Miranda seriously considers just turning the water off entirely and just hadning out generous amounts of wet wipes.

8 - Viggo prints out about 145 of his leaves photos and he and some of his kids use up the entirety of the pool table in the Red Room to make the concept for an art installation.

9 - Bernard takes Boris out for a walk. Bernard gets lost.

10 - Karl receives a phone call around three. Bernard informs him that Boris got lost. Karl informs Bernard that Boris has been home for two hours.

11 - Beth spends a great deal of the afternoon hanging upside down from the doorway to the living room. Her roommate Christian silently regrets installing his work out equipment. Her roommate Aldis loudly complains about it.

12 - Around five, Sean returns home from his pre-birthday trip to Stockholm. Three six formers from his house whistle when he gets out of his lady friend's car and cackle when he growls at them. They are fucking glad that he is back, though.

13 - Viggo forces Sean to look at the artificial tree made out of 145 photos and nine random branches Timothy Millighan found on the lawn.

14 - Sean forces Viggo to look at the two blurry pictures he took of - really, Viggo isn't sure what that is supposed to show and Sean's very long explanation doesn't make a lot of sense.

15 - At 6:15 p.m. West receives a text message from Gerry, asking whether one can overdose on honey.

***

Dominic thought he had succeeded at distancing himself from those people with that little explosion in his lab nine years ago. But all that did was multiply the observer effect: Whenever he is in the room, at least half of the people act more shifty and nervous than normal, if the reaction to them, demonstrated by the other half of test subjects, is to be believed.

Case in point, one Tuesday evening in April, on which Dominic finds himself in a pub in Harrogate that bears such a close resemblance to ‘The Prancing Pony’ that several people (Cate, Gerry, Bernard’s wife) have already remarked on it. Only Karl seems to be pleased with the choice of location for Sean’s annual celebration of being born; around nine he has finished his fifth pint and reminds the rest of the people present that he is the only one able to crawl home if he feels like it. Dominic doubts that there is any need for that, considering his body mass and the fact that his alcohol intake has been spread over the last two hours. But he isn’t going to point out anyone’s faulty science this evening.

He is resolved to keep the amount of social interaction he is going to partake in to an absolute minimum. The only reason why he agreed to come in the first place is that Gerry tricked him by getting himself admitted to hospital. However, he spends half an hour talking to one of Sean’s non-school-related friends about gun powder. It is, however, followed by said friend excusing himself in order to burst into song on Sean’s behalf. Dominic thinks the song not only very sentimental put possibly better fitting for a funeral, but he doesn’t voice his opinion. He possesses more self-composure than Sean, Viggo and Gerry, who have tears in their eyes after the first few verses already.

He steps outside to recover from that. He doesn’t have the excuse of wanting to smoke, but inside there are gifts being unwrapped, and the only people he would voluntarily watch doing that are his own children. Besides, Gerry has already shown him what he got Sean, and he is certain that no one can come up with anything more creative than the Lego version of the Scottish Cavalry at the Battle of Waterloo. He is more interested in the mushroom heater that stands next to the pub’s collection of yet-to-be-reassembled terrace furniture. An ‘Out of order’ sign is attached to it, but he bets he could fix it in under five minutes. Sean and Orlando exit the pub, both with a cigarette already between their lips, and watch him with amusement (Sean) and mistrust (Orlando). One of those is warranted.

When Sean is dragged back inside by his huge Irish friend and Orlando follows, Dominic knows that this is the time for speeches. Normally that would be his cue to leave. But he doesn’t have his car keys because he allowed Gerry to steal them earlier. He doesn’t really miss them, but could use the Swiss army knife attached to them for that mushroom heater.

Cheering is audible through the door and the large windows that face the terrace, and in the shadow of the heater, he leans against the wall and watches the semi-muted proceedings. 

Of course he would never seriously propose that the observer effect or chaos theory really could be applied to a social situation. That suggestion would be based on the assumption that science and social so-called-science might overlap.

Inside, after the cheering died down, the party breaks into little groups again. His eyes find John, with whom he talked about gun powder, just as he and his red-haired mate are joined by the Irishman. Due to the huge mustache John sports, Dominic can’t read his lips, but his words to the Irishman must contain some sort of dirty joke. The Irishman breaks out in full-body laughter and slaps him on his bony shoulders. The ginger-haired man smiles as well, but adjusts his wire-rimmed spectacles and leaves the other two. 

His feet take him to the table where Emma, Bernard, and John Rhys-Davies still eat parts of their dessert, and since his mouth isn’t obscured by any facial hair, his greeting words are easily distinguishable for Dominic - ‘Hello, do you mind if I join you? My friends deem Voltaire barely good enough to wipe their bottoms.’

The three (former) English teachers of course instantly jump at the chance to talk about literature. Dominic decides to skip the details. He might fall asleep against the window otherwise. 

His gaze sweeps the room and stops at Gerry. He is being chatted up by one of Sean’s many brunette 40-something female acquaintances. She is not put off by Gerry’s enthusiasm for head wear, if her smiles and his gesturing is anything to go by.

When Bernard gets up from his chair, Dominic’s attention is drawn back to him, and it’s not really a surprise that - once Bernard has located Viggo (easily to find in a crowd like this; just look for Orlando and direct your attention to the opposite end of the room) - both of them engage in something that is very foreseeable. 

With a glass in his hand, Viggo climbs upon a chair and Bernard follows suit with a spoon. It is quite crowded on their piece of furniture, and the rest of the guests break out in laughter when Bernard’s spoon, applied to Viggo’s glass, draws their attention. Since their backs are turned to the window, Dominic doesn’t know what they are saying verbatim. But looking at Sean tells him all he needs to know about their speech - he looks embarrassed and pleased both, buries his face twice in the crook of a laughing Ashley's neck.

And of course, there is applause at the end of the speech, then Viggo saves Bernard from falling off the chair before they both descend. 

Everyone goes back to their previous engagements, and Ashley and Bernard’s wife seem keen on discussing Stockholm. Dominic has quite conflicting memories about that city. So he quickly abandons them and finds Gerry giving Sean the third hug of the evening.

Sean accepts it with much greater ease than the words on his behalf. After that he sits down at the table that still holds his half-empty pint glass. Cate and Orlando are seated there; again, it doesn’t come as a surprise. 

The fourth person at the table causes Dominic to frown because he can’t remember seeing the man before. Yet Cate treats him with a familiarity that suggests she hasn’t just met him. He’s not her husband either; her husband has momentarily been held up to talk about kilts with Gerry and the brunette woman right in front of the doors to the loo and now makes his way back to the table.

For a second Dominic contemplates whether the man might be another one of JC’s teachers, one he just hasn’t noticed before. But that, of course, is impossible. Dominic hasn’t got files on all of his colleagues, but that’s just because he doesn’t have to. His memory is very good, and just in case he befriended the janitor who installed surveillance cameras to capture the lawns and who still thinks that this is all they are recording.

The man should be about 6’2’’, fourteen stone, has dark hair, a dark and well-groomed beard and a nose that makes Dominic 100% sure now that he can’t have seen him before. He’d remember him. 

Sean’s behaviour towards him clearly speaks against it as well. When he is among people used to him, he doesn’t bother toning down his boisterous and loud nature; with him and Gerry in attendance, a large room easily gives the impression that it is over-crowded. But Sean right now reminds Dominic of the first days after the summer holidays, the moment Ian enters the staff room with new teachers in tow. A quieter and more deliberate kind of friendly and approachable, much more focused. 

The dark-haired man doesn’t appear like someone in need of that kind of consideration, which is peculiar. His entire demeanour telegraphs a distinguished kind of control that is only slightly undermined by the topic of their conversation - professional tennis.

The lack of Cate’s usual aloofness distracts Dominic for another moment until Orlando groans, leans his head back and changes the subject (‘Seriously, I’d rather listen to a conversation about contemporary novels than a moment more of Wimbledon. Richard, Sean prefers Ian McEwan over Julian Barnes. Surely you have something to say about that.’).

Sean’s responding booming laughter is loud enough for Dominic to hear it outside, and for about half of the people in the room to briefly turn their head toward him. The smile on Richard’s face is the Oxbridge equivalent to that as he looks at Orlando. Orlando’s responding expression is smug, and also it’s - ah. They’re sleeping together. 

The half-pint of beer Dominic had earlier seems to have slowed down the speed of his abductive reasoning. Quite embarrassing.

For reasons unknown and uninteresting to him, Richard and Sean begin talking about Flaubert’s pet parrot now.

A waitress cleans empty glasses off their table without interrupting the conversation. His eyes follow her as she loads up her tray and then hurries across the room, effortlessly and without losing speed scuttering past Viggo (on the phone), Karl, and the brunette woman whom Gerry has been talking to. 

Gerry himself is nowhere in sight. 

Because he is right behind Dominic.

‘So, my new friend Lena-’

Dominic turns around, and Gerry stands next to the door, hands in the pockets of his jeans.

‘- she’s askin’ whether anyone knows the creepy bloke behind the windae. And I’m like, who, and she says, there, that daftie standing outside, keekin’ in. So, I say, that’s my mate West, he cannae be creepy even if he tried, so hawd yir wheesit.’

‘Do you realize that your accent becomes thicker whenever you’re lying on my behalf?’

Gerry snickers.

‘I’m a pure crappy liar, though.’

There is no doubt about that. Sometimes, truths that Gerry speaks sound so much like lies that they get them thrown out of a monster truck show or an orchid auction.

Gerry pulls his left hand out of his pocket. He holds out Dominic’s car keys.

‘Here, I nicked those from you earlier.’

Dominic takes them.

‘I hadn’t even noticed.’

‘You really can do better than that, mate,’ he says with a chuckle and holds out his right hand as well now. ‘I nicked those as well.’

Dominic takes the three small items offered to him - three glossy matchbooks that bear the logo of the pub.

‘I don’t smoke, and I am not a pyromaniac.’

Gerry lifts his shoulders in an easy shrug.

‘Aye, I know that.’

From inside the pub, there comes another collective cheer, and as Dominic glances through the window, someone from the staff just wheeled in more cake. These people. So predictable.

‘Anyroad,’ Gerry says and gestures at the pub’s entrance. ‘I’m gonna go back inside. You want one for the road?’

Dominic knows perfectly well how he ended up in front of a boring small town pub on a Tuesday night, standing next to a broken mushroom heater. It is because of his peculiar attachment to someone who gave him a nuclear power station for his birthday. Who, despite his excruciating pick up lines, is extraordinarily successful with women, who is astonishingly incapable of working a pair of scissors whilst being pleasingly good with Danish interlocking bricks. Who is refreshingly random.

So he nods. Gerry clears his throat, taps his chest and belches, then grins and opens the door.

***

‘So, he doesn’t have horns,’ Viggo says.

With his whistle still between his lips, Sean looks at Viggo on his right. He has been there for the last fifteen minutes, watching Sean’s girls scare the shit out of some boys from Arnor who dared to challenge them for a “friendly” match. Aside from a few encouraging mutterings, mostly in response to plays from his kids, Viggo hasn’t said anything until now, though.

Sean spits out the whistle, and the red band hanging around his neck keeps it from falling into the grass.

‘Who?’

‘Orlando’s boyfriend,’ Viggo says, raising both his hands and forming mock horns with his index fingers behind his head. ‘He hasn’t got horns. I checked.’

He says that with an earnestness that should be a dead give-away for a joke, but with Viggo you never know.

Sean hums.

‘That’s an improvement then, at least.’

This time Viggo turns to look at him.

‘None of his previous -’ he makes a vague gesture, as if the term “lover” cannot be uttered in the same sentence as “Orlando”, ‘had any, did they? I checked.’

Sean hums again.

‘I know that. I meant that it’s an improvement that this time you just checked for horns. Pretty sure Katy found it weird that you stared at her feet and her arse that night at the pub.’

Viggo’s innocent look doesn’t fool anyone, at least not Sean.

‘Katy?’

Sean chuckles.

‘Aye. The woman you checked for cloven feet and a tail.’

‘I never did that,’ Viggo protests, but he doesn’t sound 100% certain. Still, after a moment he pulls a face and elbows Sean in the side. Sean is currently trying to teach his girls that no, even during a “friendly” match with no proper referee, you still aren’t allowed to shove anyone into the mud. So, he doesn’t shove Viggo into the mud. Instead he growls.

‘He didn’t have horns,’ Viggo repeats and pulls a face. ‘He was _nice_.’

Martina Sanchez might possibly act against the “no mud” rule in the next ten seconds (David Watkins _is_ annoying, Sean gives her that). Still, Sean takes his eyes off the pitch to look at Viggo again.

‘Are you trying to get me to gossip about Orlando’s love life?’

Viggo doesn’t look caught in the act. He rolls his eyes, as if Sean is incredibly thick.

‘Don’t you have Eric for that?’ Sean asks.

Viggo makes a dismissive gesture.

‘Eric is worse than Bernard when it comes to gossiping.’

That is some statement. Bernard is notorious for his utter lack of gossiping skills. Apparently in Manchester they don’t make a difference between “spreading things you heard and maybe speculating a bit about the reasons” and “blatantly making up shit that has no resemblance to the truth whatsoever”.

‘Also,’ Viggo adds, just as Sean shouts ‘Oi!’ at Martina, causing a surprised David to fall into the mud all on his own, ‘you _like_ gossiping.’

‘If you can’t play by the bloody rules, lass, get of the grass!’ Sean yells at Martina, mostly so he doesn’t have to try and deny what is really quite true.

Martina rolls her eyes so hard that Sean can see it across the entire field, but she holds her hand out to David to pull him back onto his feet.

‘Did you hear that your mate Lena wants to open a hat shop with Gerry?’ Viggo says when the ball is rolling again.

There is so much blatant innuendo in Viggo’s voice that Sean’s barking laughter makes James Chase lose possession of the ball.

‘Is that so?’ he asks when he can talk again.

Viggo grins and shrugs.

‘I don’t know. I’m just trying to engage you in a conversation, aren’t I?’ He draws his brows together in what Sean reckons is supposed to be a pitiful expression. ‘I broke one of the photocopiers this morning, I am out of my tea, and Christopher informed me earlier that I am to work on the school brochure this year. I need something to take my mind off it, and you even get to decide on the topic.’

Sean laughs again.

‘Mate, a choice between talking about Orlando’s sex life and Gerry’s sex life, that’s not really a choice, is it?’

His summary is a little unfair to Viggo’s suggestions, of course. Viggo has never really been that interested in discussing sex; neither his own, nor other people’s. It’s probably not because he thinks it too improper or private - Sean had to listen to a very, _very_ detailed account of Viggo’s bowl movements after a trip to Laos in ‘02 and to various scenarios of what to do with Viggo’s dead body in what Sean privately dubbed “Viggo’s particularly morbid phase of ‘95”. So, it’s not that Viggo is squeamish about getting too personal. Sean just figures that he just isn’t that into sex (or at least discussing it with him) and counts his blessings.

His attention can’t have been distracted for longer than a moment - Mara O’Riley is still battering her way across the field toward the other goal, taking no prisoners - but Viggo seems to have decided that he is a lost cause today. His focus is now completely on spurring on Arnor a lot more vocally.

It would be very different, had Sean not said “Orlando’s and Gerry’s sex life” but “their relationships”. Because there is no one more fascinated by human relationships than Viggo, nor is there anyone less judgemental when it comes to them. There is no one who knows more or cares more about the kids at his house than Viggo, but that kind of investment doesn’t end with his charges. Sean has been friends with Lena for a decade now, and yet he is sure that Viggo already spent more time contemplating her interactions with others than he ever did. 

It makes him a fantastic head of house and a very dedicated friend. And a tad annoying at times.

‘Hiya.’

Sean turns his head just as Mara’s shot misses by about a mile. Orlando is standing on his left, critical eyes sweeping over the field. When Viggo, too, briefly glances at him, Orlando gives him a nod that is polite, but as far from congenial as Mara’s attempt to score was from the goal.

‘How long till half time?’

Sean glances at his watch and shrugs.

‘Another ten minutes or so, why?’

Orlando grunts then nods in the general direction of the players who are waiting for Jessie Quirke to extract the ball from the nearest shrubbery.

‘I need to have a word with Emma. Can you tell her to come and see me after football, at half six?’

Sean nods.

‘Will that take longer than half an hour?’

‘No, come round, if you want,’ Orlando replies without hesitation, catching Sean’s meaning. ‘I might even have beer.’

‘Oh, definitely expect me then.’

The vestige of a smile briefly appears on Orlando’s lips in response; gone when he nods at Viggo before he turns around and leaves again.

Viggo’s gaze follows him for a moment, then it returns to Sean. There’s unabashed curiosity in his eyes.

‘So, beer and a chat?’ he says, and he almost sounds a little jealous.

If he thought that there was even a small chance that Orlando would not just scoff and tell him to fuck himself, he would very probably abandon their feud temporarily to interview him about last night, and with the thoroughness (and fearlessness) of a wildlife journalist, too. 

Sean chuckles.

‘Beer and “Emmerdale”,’ he corrects.

Viggo sighs with humorous exaggeration and doesn’t look like he completely believes him. But as it is with his attention span, it’s the next moment that he unclips the whistle from Sean’s band.

‘I’m going in,’ he proclaims with dramatic flourish and jogs onto the pitch for a little more hands-on-refereeing, muttering, ‘Beer and “Emmerdale”; Jesus Christ.’

It’s of course exactly what will happen. They will sit down as the theme music plays, will disagree about Charity, agree about Paddy, have a beer each and some of the leftover cake. Their conversation about last night will consist of exactly three exchanges -

_‘Yeah, the food was all right.’ - ‘No, Lando, it was bloody brilliant.’_

_‘Did Gerry really give you Lego?’ - ‘Oh, aye.’_

and

_‘Bernard tried to nick the wine that Richard gave me, so it must be good. Thank him again from me, will you?’ - ‘Hmhm.’_

\- and that will be that.

Orlando is a little more thoughtful, now that he is with Richard; he was a tad more reckless when he went out with Katy, laughed a bit more when he dated Condola and Trevor. Sean liked them all well enough, and he enjoyed his chat with Richard last night. But it really matters very little to him whom Orlando is seeing. He always is and (stubbornly, steadfastly, reliably) remains just Orlando, and that’s what counts. 

He knows the feeling is mutual, too. Orlando will dutifully listen when Sean should occasionally gripe or gush about his girl-friend, but he doesn’t otherwise care about Ashley, or Georgie or Alex before her, and neither does Sean need him to.

So, Orlando certainly isn’t like Viggo when it comes -- the absurdity of the comparison belatedly makes his thoughts grind to an abrupt halt, and he chuckles. It’s like comparing apples and hand grenades. 

Point is, Orlando doesn’t talk about relationships, and Sean certainly doesn’t like it as much as Viggo either.

It’ll be beer and Emmerdale, then a chat about the [book about Wellington](https://www.zvab.com/servlet/BookDetailsPL?bi=3264775076&searchurl=hl%3Don%26sortby%3D1%26kn%3Dwellington) that Orlando gave him, their summer vacation this year. Then probably football; ManU is playing Bournemouth at home tonight.

Not in Old Trafford, but on Jackson’s damp home turf, Viggo comes jogging back toward him right now.

He turns just in time to see how Martina restores the girls’ honour - and probably makes half of the boys spontaneously fall in love with her - with a perfect overhead bicycle kick that lands the ball straight in the net.

‘Bloody hell,’ Sean exhales around the biggest grin while the girls cheer and Martina just scoffs as David holds up a hand to help her up before she springs to her feet.

Viggo clasps his shoulder, his excitement bare all envy.

‘Oh, you do train them well, my friend!’

And aye, Sean reckons he does.

***

Rajesh Pateel, 6th form, Austen, regrets few things in his life. Mostly because he is an optimist, but also because life in general is pretty sweet. These are his major regrets of the last years:

Breaking up with Sarah Watkins. Not because he is still in love with her or anything - he never really was and she is kind of annoying and he thinks she might have given him oral herpes. But she did also give him the best (okay, only) blow job of his life.

Teaching Grandma Lolo how to use emoticons. Because he is all for the older generation using social media as such, but dude, it is so disturbing to constantly get messages like "How is my favourite grandson" with a fucking winky face attached to it. Like, so disturbing.

Choosing Maths A-Level. And he doesn't even have anyone but himself to blame for it. His parents were super chill about his choices, but he thought it'd be a walk in the park. After the first couple of weeks he had to realize that he accidentally racially-profiled himself. And was wrong. Take this morning for instance, when Mr Bana comes to class, full on beaming, and hands them what looks like IKEA instructions but turn out to be visualizations of algorithms. Everyone else is super gleeful about it - even Sarah and she is doing worse in maths than he is - and all Rajesh can think is that it's too bad the little IKEA cartoon man doesn't have a hammer he could borrow to brain himself with it.

***

[20/4/2018, Whatsapp]

\-- Dom opened the group “Summer vacation, bitches”.

\-- Dom added Orlando Bloom.

\-- Dom added Sean Bean.

\-- Orlando Bloom left the group.

\-- Dom added Karl Urban.

\-- Dom added Orlando Bloom.

Dom [4:06 p.m.]: LANDO FOR FUCKS SAKE IF YOU LEAVE THE GROUP AGAIN I WONT ADD YOU FOR A THIRD TIME

Orlando [4:06 p.m.]: I am sitting right next to you, you muppet

Orlando [4:06 p.m.]: And there is no fucking way that you’ll succeed in planning our summer vac via whatsapp

Orlando [4:06 p.m.]: So I am just saving time

Orlando [4:06 p.m.]: Idiot

\-- Orlando Bloom left the group.

Karl [4:10 p.m.]: That started off well

Dom [4:10 p.m.]: Whatever

Dom [4:10 p.m.]: So, since you’re so fucking kind to FINALLY let me tag along, I agreed to do the planning and booking and whatever

Sean [4:11 p.m.]: Yes. I know. That is what I suggested this morning.

Karl [4:11 p.m.]: Poland is not the same as the Czech Republic, Dom, just fyi

Dom [4:11 p.m.]: I teach fucking geography

Dom [4:11 p.m.]: Anyway, tell me when you’re free during the holidays and where you want to go. I suggest Northern Italy, Denmark or Bulgaria

Karl [4:11 p.m.]: Week 2-6

Karl [4:11 p.m.]: Bulgaria, Denmark, Italy

Sean [4:15 p.m.]: I’m all right with all three, Bulgaria and Denmark maybe, since I’m already in Italy with Ashley during the first two weeks. Week 3/4 would be good, 5 is all right as well.

Dom [4:17 p.m.]: Thank you, gentlemen. So, fourth week, and I’ll get back to you re: route and hotels in Bulgaria. 

Karl [4:17 p.m.]: Ace

Sean [4:17 p.m.]: Cheers

Dom [4:17 p.m.]: De nada. Nice doing business with you

Karl [4:18 p.m.]: Might wanna ask Lando whether he’s doing a couples retreat during that time or something

Dom [4:18 p.m.]: If he wanted a say in these matters, fucker should’ve stayed in the group

Sean [4:19 p.m.]: Seconded.

\-- Dom added Orlando Bloom.

Dom [4:19 p.m.]: We’re going to Bulgaria in the 3rd / 4th week, nitwit

Dom [4:19 p.m.]: Burn

Orlando [4:19 p.m.]: Fine by me

\-- Orlando Bloom has left the group.

***

On this fine Saturday morning, Bernard is out in the woods for a stroll. For once the purpose of this endeavour is not accidentally losing Boris. Boris is with Karl and Bernard suspects the dog won't want to take him out for walkies again any time soon; not after that incident with the pond last week. No, Bernard is out all on his own because Marianne chucked him out, so she and their son can put out the gardening furniture without either of them beating Bernard and his helpful suggestions to death with the parasol.

The woods around Jackson are exceptionally pretty this time of the year, and the only reason why Bernard isn't whistling a mere tune is that whenever he starts, there seems to be a bunch of stray pupils around the next corner. They always give him funny looks, as if it's not perfectly normal for a man to whistle.

As it is, Bernard feels strange enough without their disapproval. After so many walks with Boris, it is odd to be out on his own for once. Animals are mans best friend after all.

He runs into the Prancing Pony's new owner who obviously agrees with him. Bernard hasn't yet talked to him properly, as he hasn't been to the Pony at all this week . But he has seen him out and about in the village a couple of times. And the village is small enough for everyone to know everyone else by sight.

What Bernard knows of him is very little so far; only your typical village gossip. Like how his name is Bill, he is originally from Bath, has a degree from the College of Music and shares a birthday with Orlando. All terribly boring.

He feels much, much better about his day and the future of the Pony, however, when he passes him in the woods and exchange a brief and sophisticated nod of hello. Because Bernard now knows two more, far more interesting things about Bill now; one - he shares Bernard's thoughts of men in the woods with animals, two - he will much likely steal the crown of 'oddest person' from Viggo within a fortnight. Also, he and Marianne will have dinner at the pub tonight.

Because the animal that Bill is taking out for walkies is a cockatoo.

***

It says something about Arnor House that, throughout the day, none of its inhabitants says anything to Eric. Did he live at Wellesley, he'd have several people chant possibly very politically-incorrect footie songs at him until the head of house showed up and a lot of bellowing would ensue. In Austen, there possibly also would be a reaction of the lyrical variety, but less of the Hooligan nature and more Shakespeare and Keats. The way proud Mirkwooders would respond to him would not be very far from how they usually treat anyone from Arnor (at least as long as their head of house is within earshot); with silent contempt. Had he run into someone from Palm, said person would most possibly and ever so pragmatically pointed out that "sir, you got something in your hair".

As it is, Eric lives at Arnor whose head of house is Viggo, and thus no one comments on or possibly even notices his addition to his wardrobe. It is actually Viggo of all people who finally does.

He lets himself into Eric's flat after an afternoon of, well, pretty much frolicking in the sun on Arnor's front lawn, and finds Eric in the bathroom. He is sitting in the tub, a generous amount of bubbles around him, and he is reading a car magazine. He is, of course, naked, except for -

'You're still wearing that?' Viggo asks.

Eric hums in a way that tells that he has noticed someone is in his bathroom and it is possibly Viggo, but he is really too wrapped up in cars to process his question. It's only after he finishes his paragraph, that he lowers the magazine.

'Sorry, what?'

Viggo pulled the toilet lid down to have somewhere to sit and now points at Eric's head. Automatically Eric reaches for his hair, fingers stopping short from touching the delicate daisy chain that is resting there.

'Oh, yeah. Forgot for a moment it was there,' he says.

Viggo hums.

'Why is it? There, I mean. Did you get it from one of the kids?' He leans closer to inspect the handiwork. 'Doesn't look like it. Looks a bit like a gorilla made it, to be honest.'

Eric smiles and raises his paper again.

'I'd salute any gorilla who'd be capable of that,' he says. 'But I think Gerry might be insulted.' He shrugs and it makes the bubbles on the waters surface dance a little. 'Or maybe not.'

Viggo hums and is silent for a moment, possibly contemplating fine motoring skills of giant animals.

'He'll have to wear a bee costume in class,' Eric says, by way of explanation, 'if I can prove to him that I wore this for fourty eight hours.'

Viggo hums. This of course makes total sense.

'That makes sense,' he says, but then frowns. 'But how - there has been no one here to witness -'

He doesn't have to finish his sentence because Eric points at the small cupboard opposite the bathtub. Viggo's eyes find Eric's tablet propped against a bottle of beer, and not only is it switched on, it's also transmitting a video chat. It's muted because while Gerry waves enthusiastically when he notices Viggo's attention, no sound comes from the speakers.

Viggo hums again. Eric turns the page of his magazine.

'Wow' Viggo says, sounding very, very amazed.

Eric hums.

Gerry waves and accidentally swipes his own tablet off the table with the motion.

***

Around lunchtime, Eric sits at the teachers' table in the cafeteria and thinks about the Falcon. The weather outside is nice, he's looking forward to summer drives, and he has three helpings of chicken wings on his plate. Life is pretty nice.

There has been an incident at one of the kids' tables that ended with one of the kids having mashed potatoe in his face. But the time it took Eric to muster enough interest to so much as turn his head, Miranda already made her way over to - Eric isn't really sure what, he instantly lost interest again.

Viggo and Sean are talking about some book. Sean looks thrilled, Viggo mildly interested, which means they must be talking about some historical thing or other. Sean gestures with chicken wings. He's proabably talking about the Duke of Wellington, then.

Eric returns to thinking about his baby and chewing. It's after about three more chicken wings that Viggo's interest suddenly changes from "Sean, I like you, but I'm not really in your history A-level, so yeah" to an assortment of internet acronyms, starting with OMG, RLY?

'Aye, absolutely true,' Sean says with a nod and another chicken-wing-wave in the moment that Eric starts listening to the audio track.

'But why didn't I know this?' Viggo asks, and he sounds offended, like Sean has been keeping some big secret from him.

'What are you talking about?' Eric asks around a bite of chicken.

'Oh, it speaks,' mocks Emma (when did she get here?) on Sean's other side.

'Old Nosey,' Sean says. 

'He played cricket,' says Viggo. 'Professionally.'

'Well,' says Sean, 'he played for the All Ireland team in the first recorded cricket game in Ireland. Scored 6 runs in his 2 innings.'

Viggo is still looking at Sean with incredulity. Eric swallows his mouthful of chicken.

'Why didn't I know this?'

***

During the season of hay fever and colds caught due to too optimistic readings of the weatherforecast, there are a lot of cases of teacher sickness and the list of classes that have to do with a substitute teacher grows longer and longer.

More often than not, the sub comes from the ranks of the teachers; only in cases of longer illness (like that one time two years ago when Beth broke her clavicle, afterwards claiming it was a work injury when everyone (okay, Gerry) still believes she got that while catburgling) an actual substitute teacher is called in.

As one might imagine, having to substitute is not exactly met with whoops of joy and laughter. Some people (Sean, Eric) have been known to try and hide in the Gents. Some people (okay, one) even once tried climbing a tree when they saw Christopher approaching. Okay, it was Gerry. Some people (West) apparently own an invisibility cloak.

The only person who is rather fond of sub work is Bernard. That might come as a surprise, since Bernard already teaches his regular classes in a way that suggests that he is not too fond of what other people call "work". However, in the day and age of the internet, Bernard loves having to fill in for other people. Because it doesn't matter whether it is first or sixth form, his way of lesson prep always consists of these five simple steps:

1 - Get the key for one of the computer labs and herd the pupils-to-be-subbed there.

2 - Write "www.qi.com" at the whiteboard and say "You have got so-and-so many minutes. Make a list of the not just quite, but most interesting 25 facts you can find on that website."

3 - Sit back and have a coffee.

4 - At the end of the lesson, award points for the lists in the typical QI fashion; meaning: completely random and arbitrary.

5 - Surprise your colleagues with interesting tidbits from all over the place during the next break.

***

'I'm still not sure whether that is such a grouse idea, mate,' Eric says and tilts his head.

'Well,' says Viggo next to him on the sofa. He doesn't add anything else, but the word itself is drawn out and conveys quite a bit of scepticism all on its own.

'So, what does it say?'

'Well,' Viggo says again. He leans forward and squints. Then he pulls his glasses from his shirt front and puts them on. Again he squints.

'Well?' Eric enquires after a moment.

Viggo squints again, then takes off his glasses.

'Well, I need to get new glasses, I think,' he says and sighs wistfully.

Eric nods.

'Yeah, I've been telling you that for months, mate.'

Viggo hums and pats Eric's feet in his lap. Eric raises his right foot and gives Viggo's face a nudge. Viggo snickers and turns his head away. Eric's foot follows.

'I would get up and check,' Viggo says against a blue sock. 'If you'd let me.'

Eric sighs and transfers his feet from Viggo's face / his lap respectively onto the coffee table. As he promised, Viggo gets up and crosses the room to inspect the map of the world on the other wall. There is a dart arrow sticking in it.

'Well?' Eric prompts once again. 'Where are we going over the summer?'

Viggo turns around towards him and looks at him like the man on the weather forecast of a local news chanel with serious fiscal problems.

'Good news and bad news, I suppose,' he starts.

'Start with the good ones,' Eric says and wriggles his toes for emphasis.

Viggo points at the map.

'The good news is that we're definitely going to the Southern hemisphere.'

He has to stop there and wait until Eric is done humming the first bit of the Australian national anthem.

'The bad news,' Viggo says, glancing back at the arrow, 'at least from your perspective, I suppose, is -' he interrupts himself and looks at the ceiling while he tries to find a way to soften the blow. But after a moment he shakes his head. 

'We're going to New Zealand.'

Eric looks at him.

'Now I am sure that this wasn't a grouse idea, mate.'

***

After a trial period of a week and a bit, Sean thinks he might take back his recent redecoration. His parents gave him a carpet for his birthday which was surprising (he can’t remember ever saying he needed one) s well as amusing (his mum wrote on the birthday card that, should it happen to be a flying carpet, he’d better visit them more often). It’s a pretty one as well, thick wool, dyed light brown and blue in an abstract pattern.

However, there hasn’t been a carpet on his living room floor for the last three decades. And pupils are notoriously lazy and never lift their feet higher than absolutely necessary. So, this new addition to his home has led to five seperate incidents of stumbling over the carpet and faceplanting onto The Couch. Granted, in four of those five cases the destination had been The Couch anyway, and to her credit, Kyle Lanningham didn’t even spill one drop of his tea. 

So, Sean really should do something about that and either put up warning signs or move the carpet. But he reckons he’ll wait till Orlando has been round. Chances are that the number of incidents will rise to six.

***

[27/4/2018, Whatsapp]

Beth [5:47 p.m.]: Do you want to come over later?

Beth [5:47 p.m.]: For sex purposes.

Beth [5:47 p.m.]: In case that was not clear.

Beth [5:48 p.m.]: Also, Chris is cooking dinner.

Beth [5:47 p.m.]: So what do you say?

Karl [6:11 p.m.]: Hell yes

Beth [6:11 p.m.]: To the sex or to the food?

Karl [6:11 p.m.]: SEX

Beth [6:11 p.m.]: Chris says you're not getting any dinner since you're so unappreciative.

Karl [6:12 p.m.]: I WASN'T EVEN DONE

Karl [6:12 p.m.]: Of course I want the food as well

Karl [6:12 p.m.]: Kane is a fantastic cook

Karl [6:12 p.m.]: Tell him I said that

Beth [6:12 p.m.]: Tell him yourself

Karl [6:12 p.m.]: You did just tell him about our sex plans but you're not relaying a compliment?

Karl [6:12 p.m.]: One that will get me food?

Karl [6:13 p.m.]: Delicious Kane food?

Beth [6:13 p.m.]: Such is life

Beth [6:13 p.m.]: Be here at eight

Beth [6:14 p.m.]: Aldis says you can bring Boris and he will look after him while we have sex as long as we're not doing it so loud again

Karl [6:14 p.m.]: Did you tell everyone about our sex plans?

Beth [6:14 p.m.]: I posted about it on Facebook

Beth [6:14 p.m.]: Why?

Karl [6:14 p.m.]: Woman!

Beth [6:14 p.m.]: Man!

Beth [6:14 p.m.]: Is this foreplay already?

***

Sean very rarely rues his choice of profession. Here are three of those exceptions:

Having a Wednesday fan as a boarder. In a year that Wednesday is doing better than the Blades.

Having to chaperone a trip to York's biggest outlet store. That one is really only fun when Orlando is with him. Because Sean can force him to be the responsible adult, have a beer and laugh tears at Orlando's three hour rant about shopping being possibly more of a waste of time than going to church.

Having to give one of the girls the sex talk after a pregnancy scare. He is not old enough to be a grandfather and would rather not take up smoking the pipe.

***

Eric falls asleep over a stack of tests from his incompetent third formers. In his dreams, Trevor Millingham is wrestling a giant yellow "5" in a kiddie pool. 

When he wakes up again, the light outside his study's window is definitely leaning toward twilight. A test sheet sticks to his cheek as he raises his head from the desk, and the slight cramp in his neck tells him that he must've been asleep in this position for half an hour at least.

On his desk, somewhat precariously balanced on Eric's spare calculators, stands a fresh mug of coffee that is still steaming. Eric's mysterious ghost waiter also took a spare test sheet, origami-folded it into a crane and wrote "I'm making sushi with Bernie" onto its left wing and "come and get some, once you are done" onto its right with a black sharpie.

Eric's mood brightens considerably at that prospect and he finishes his tests without falling into a coma for a second time. He goes into the bathroom to wash his hands - sushi is finger food after all - and when he glances up into the mirror, he sees that the crane wasn't the only thing Viggo used his marker for.

He also drew a penis onto Eric's forehead.

***

Viggo very seldom regrets his choice of profession or any decisions he made during the course of it. These are four of the bigger ones.

Not having poured a bucket of holy water over Orlando's head when he was in Viggo's A-level. For one, it would have been funny. For another, he'd have taken holy water, just on the off-chance that it turned him to dust.

Not getting married to Eric during the class trip to Ireland in 2010. Not because he particularly wants to be married, he doesn't. But they could have gotten Eric's nerdy A-level kids as bridesmaids.

Not succeeding in convincing Christopher that they should get a scuba diving suit for exploratory missions in JC's pond. He is pretty sure that they would find at least 20 bikes in there and in Viggo's opinion every kid should be schooled in diving properly. Sean's method of just shoving them in at the deep end (metaphorically as well as literally) isn't really Viggo's thing.

The trial period of free WiFi in Arnor in 2014. He only got that past the school board by promising to monitor his kids' internet usage very closely. And not only is that a degree of invasion of privacy that makes him a bit sick, he also underestimated how many of his boys would completely forget that they were being monitored and start watching porn on their phones.


End file.
